All the King's Men
by Miss Lalla
Summary: AU 5: The King's Men had for centuries stood behind every monarch of Britain, before they suddenly and mysteriously disappeared from the face of the earth. Living in hiding, they await The One to come and call upon them again to take up arms and return the Kingdom to its former glory. What will Harry do when he stumbles upon the infamous legend? Darkish Harry
1. Chapter 1

**Hello My Faithful Readers! I do apologise most sincerely for abandoning my stories for such a long time. It was totally uncalled for, but I PROMISE you I won't do it again. I don't leave any of my business unfinished. Now I'm back with a refreshed view, feeling overwhelmed with the amount of prompts I received to continue this story. Thank you very much for all your kind words and likes and favourites!**

**For those of you who don't know, this is a sequel to Stand Before Your God. You need to read SBYG first or this story will make absolutely no sense to you. I should probably say that SBYG is a prequel to this story, as All the King's Men is infinitely more exciting, there's much more going on, and Voldemort will actually make an appearance. Anyway, enjoy! (and forgive me...)**

Chapter 1 - Reminiscences of Youth

The day was as warm as never in the early days of January. With the temperatures topping fifteen degrees, Harry decided to spend his last moments out of school outside. The boy sat on the wooden bench under the old oak tree on the back of the Selwyn estate, enjoying the sunlight that warmed his face. His choice of the abode was dictated by a plethora of important, or fairly mundane, reasons.

First of all, he really badly longed for the fresh air. The castle might have been spacious and draughty, but even the chilly corridors could not possibly make up for the actual wind sweeping one's face, the shining sun and the birds chirping in the background. The soft, fresh-smelling breeze coming from the lake was only the icing on the cake. Another one of his many reasons was that with his friends now gone and Aunt Elizabeth busy at the Ministry, he felt quite lonely, and the empty halls of the castle seemed to be rubbing the solitude in ever more forcefully.

Observing his dog, Artemis, frolicking on the grass nearby, playing with a twig, the boy thought how happy he would have felt to be able to occupy himself with such fervour with something that did not involve another human being. Ever since meeting Rupert, he had not spent a day alone at the castle. Now, having already lasted two days without someone whom he had unashamedly taken to calling a playmate and with another three days to go before he would finally return to Hogwarts, Harry began to appreciate the previously often annoying chaos of the Gryffindor Common Room. He dreadfully missed the usually exasperating bickering of his two best friends, the meticulousness of Hermione and Ron's thick-headedness.

With a lingering gaze, the boy swept the lake that stretched before him with his eyes and sighed wistfully. He really liked it. It was beautiful, with crystal-clear water that sparkled brightly in the sunlight. He could only imagine what fun it would be in the summer, when he would be able to get in and swim until his entire body ached with strain. There were fond memories connected with it, as well, like his boating adventure on the New Year's Eve.

_You have to stand before your God and commit._

Harry remembered Lady Olivia's words. They rang in his head as clear as the night she had spoken them. And they also gave him a lot to think about. What was it that he wanted from life? What was the path he wanted his life to take? Who were the people he wanted to be associated with? What exactly were his plans for the future? These were all not easy questions. They required the boy to sit down and think deeply, consider his life so far, decide what was best for him and for those around him, too. He needed to take into consideration everything, from his realistic possibilities and abilities, through his current friendships, to any probable gains or losses. And Harry wished so badly that he wouldn't have to think about these things at all! Oh, how he wanted the answers and solutions to just be there, handed to him every morning on the silver tray on which Dotty would always bring his post and The New Magi.

Suddenly feeling very conscious of every uncomfortable detail of the bench he was sitting on, Harry scrunched his face in annoyance. For ten years, while living at the Dursleys', he had to make binding decisions, he had to take care of himself and reasonably deal with neglect and complete indifference of his primary carers towards his well-being, both physical and emotional. He lived through what no child should ever be subjected to, consoling himself with dreams of a loving family, a room of his own, and with the delicious soft-centred Belgian chocolates which Dudley would always get from Aunt Marge whenever she came to visit. Harry had once managed to nick one and find out for himself how fantastically creamy and sweet they were.

Of course, one might also argue that he had been lucky. The Dursleys had never beaten him, or starved him for too long, or generally paid any attention to him at all. In their household, it was as if he did not exist; unless, of course, someone came to visit. Then, with perverted pleasure and utter hypocrisy, they would always introduce him as a mentally disturbed nephew whom they had had the hearts good enough to take in and offer him room and board, receiving all the accolade for their charity and good will.

Harry snorted with contempt. The Dursleys had been the worst possible guardians. When he went to school, they would explain his bad clothes and glasses by saying that it was his own fault as, supposedly, he had a whole wardrobe full of new clothes, which, in his madness, he chose not to wear, opting for rags instead. Harry remembered Aunt Petunia telling his distraught primary school teacher that it had everything to do with him losing his parents at such a fragile age that caused the feeling of fear and uncertainty that would only subside when he wore Dudley's old clothes. She had even had the gall to say that he found them comforting.

'Woof! Woof! Woof!' Artemis' sudden forceful barking made the boy look up.

'Shut up!' he told her, annoyed with the noise. 'What is it, you stupid dog?' he asked irritably as she failed to obey the command. Finally, angry with being completely ignored by his own dog, Harry stood up and was already reaching out to caution her, when Artemis made a dash between his outstretched arms and ran over to the other side of the tree, all the while continuing to bark incessantly.

Surprised, Harry swirled around and was about to chase his dog to catch her and make her quiet, when something he had previously never considered made his blood freeze.

There, by the lake, not thirty feet away, stood a man dressed in a tweed suit and a pair of brogues. He looked so peculiarly old-fashioned that for a moment any thought of his suddenly endangered safety seemed to have evaporated from the boy's mind. Harry stood there, rooted to the spot under the oak tree, engaging in a staring match with the stranger who had invaded the privacy of the Selwyn estate.

Feeling a wave of courage enter his body, the boy stepped closer to the man, all the while looking at him warily. Deep down, he knew he should have been afraid. After all, it could have been Voldemort or one of his lackeys, disguised and set on abducting him. But, on the other hand, he was also quite sure that the ancient wards raised around his aunt's ancestral home would have stopped anyone who posed such an obvious threat to a member of the family.

'Sir? Excuse me, but who are you?' Harry asked, taking another few small steps towards the man. As he approached, he did not miss the stranger's wide-opening eyes, or his gob-smacked expression.

'Ralph?' the man whispered almost inaudibly, yet not quietly enough for Harry not to hear.

The boy frowned.

'Sorry,' the stranger said quickly, shaking his head, as if he could not believe in what he had done. 'Sorry, I'll go. Excuse me, please… I must have taken you for someone…' he mumbled ashamedly, turning around, ready to march off.

'No wait!' cried Harry, a bit more desperately than he wanted. The man stopped but did not turn to face the boy. 'Please, stay,' Harry said, his stride growing in velocity, as he tried to catch up with the stranger. 'Who are you?' he asked, fighting off the urge to grab the man's forearm.

The stranger looked down at Harry thoughtfully. He was at least a head taller than the boy and his face, not old by any means, bore signs of hardships that he had endured throughout his life. He seemed to be considering the boy for an arduously long moment before finally relaxing a bit.

'I'm James Lovell,' he said, but did not extend his hand. What surprised him, however, was the reaction of the child before him. The lad's eyes had suddenly grown wide as saucers, his previous eagerness diminishing somewhat.

'Jamie…' the boy whispered, taking a step back.

'What did you call me?' James asked abruptly. It was a long time since he had last been called that.

'Erm, I'm sorry, sir,' mumbled Harry, his cheeks reddening. 'I didn't mean to be rude. It's just… Well, I… erm, I heard someone talking about you,' he finished, unknowingly digging himself deeper and deeper.

'You heard someone taking about me?' he said suspiciously, squinting at the boy. 'Using that name? You better come up with another explanation, kid. No one has ever called me that name, ever.'

'Someone had…' whispered Harry, swallowing heavily. He knew he was being foolhardy. He had never met that man before; his dreams didn't count. But he simply _needed _to know. And the opportunity was too good to chicken out this time. 'Twenty years ago… Ralph Selwyn called you "Jamie", didn't he?'

'How do you know that?' James Lovell demanded, staring at the boy angrily. Had the kid been prying into the matters that had no bearing on him whatsoever?

Gathering all the courage he strove to imagine he had, Harry gulped nervously and asked, 'Could we talk, please? There's a nice spot by the West Gardens, in Lady Laura's pavilion.'

Mr Lovell observed the young man before him with a watchful eye. There was something striking about him, something very enticing, that made James want to talk to him and find out everything about his life. And, of course, there was also the surprising resemblance to Ralph… No, James decided, the boy did not look like his tragically deceased friend. The problem was that the air around him was that of Ralph, his movements, gestures, hell, even the voice was similar. And he knew that Ralph called him "Jamie".

'All right,' James said finally. 'Lead the way, boy.'

Lady Laura's pavilion was a beautiful construction, delicate and soaring, made of white and ivory-coloured marble, built sometime in the eighteenth century for the then Lady Selwyn, Laura, née Brigg-Jones. It would normally be a secluded place, as the Lady Selwyn was a very private person, who greatly enjoyed solitude, especially since it was usually the only means she had to escape the ghastly loveless marriage she was forced into as a young girl of barely seventeen. Now, however, with the tree-leaves fallen and the winter in full stride, there was nothing to shelter the little pavilion from the prying eyes of other inhabitants of the castle.

It was in such an atmosphere that Harry led James Lovell to the place which was so much beloved by the woman from whose emotional suffering sprung a family whose spirit no one had ever been able to break.

Ten minutes later, they had been comfortably seated and had both received a mug of hot chocolate from Dotty, who seemed a bit surprised to be serving a stranger, and in the almost sacred pavilion, no less! That was until James had introduced himself to the suspiciously-staring elf; Dotty literally bounced with excitement upon hearing that "Mister Lovell" was back. Never mind that in the days when he had been Ralph's friend she would usually refer to him as "that farm urchin James". Now it was "Mister Lovell", the dearest friend of her beloved "Master Ralph", 'who had suffered so much, the poor dear,' she wept for the fifth time already, as they tried to get rid of her to be able to talk undisturbed.

'Well, boy? What is it that you wanted to talk to me about?' James asked crisply, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. His voice was dry and a bit impatient, making Harry cringe. What had he been thinking to invite the man to talk? It wasn't as if he could tell him about the dreams without making himself sound ridiculous.

'I… Erm…' Harry stammered, unsure of what to say, now that he had the chance. He twisted the mug with his hand nervously. 'Could you tell me about Ralph?' he blurted out before he lost all his courage. 'Who was he? As a person? No one wants to say anything about him, as if it was some sort of a taboo.'

James looked at him shrewdly. 'Why are you so interested in Ralph? And why ask me, of all people?'

'No one else will say anything. I tried asking Dotty but she bursts into tears every time I do. And I know you were friends.'

James sighed deeply and slouched in his chair. It was clear from his body language that the topic of their conversation was hard for him.

'Yes, we were friends. Very close friends, actually,' the man said, finally giving up on questioning the boy on how he knew so much. The deep wound caused by Ralph's death was still sore, no matter how many years had passed. There had never been anyone else with whom James had shared so much, but this boy… Harry… There was just something so Ralph-like about him it almost hurt to look at him and see someone who seemed so much like his best friend but did not look like him.

'Ralph was a… well, he was quite adventurous, to say the least. Always getting in trouble,' James smiled fondly, remembering their antics. 'We always did everything together and usually argued about the best way to carry out our plans, too. Most of the time, things ended up going his way. Believe me, there are not many people as stubborn as he was.'

Jamie stopped to take a sip of his hot chocolate.

'Why don't people want to talk about him?' asked Harry, less nervously this time, as he had noticed that his companion relaxed a bit and no longer looked at him with suspicion. Instead, he seemed somewhat resigned.

'It's got to do with the history of the Selwyn family,' the man said thoughtfully. 'It's still painful to talk about it. Ralph was not the only one of the family to die tragically during this century. Three of Lady Elizabeth's paternal uncles, I believe they were called Rudolph, Thomas and… erm… Robert? Yes, I think it was Robert. Well, anyway, all of them died in a raid the Ministry Aurors carried out on this castle. It was in nineteen-twenty. Ages ago, but it's still quite a sore spot for the family. Not to mention, it was illegal. The Aurors had no order of revision, nor were they allowed to arrest anyone. It was sort of a lynching, actually. The Selwyns have never forgiven the Ministry for that. At that time, there was only the then Lord and Lady Selwyn and little Lady Elizabeth, your aunt. I believe her younger brother was born some six years later. Lady Elizabeth has never decided to marry. I think she had a couple of suitors, one of them was even the great Henry Potter, but he had later found himself some Russian aristocrat, Countess Yekaterina Lopukhina. She was at the time one of the wealthiest girls available in London. And, what's quite scary actually, she was twenty six years his junior. But neither of them lived long… Pity, as they were rather illustrious in their day.

'Well, anyway, when Lord Frederick, that was the name of your aunt's younger brother, grew up, he married Lady Gwendolyn Scilly. She was a very pretty woman, but she did not love him. It was an arranged marriage, and both Ralph and I could often see that his parents avoided one another like a plague. I remember Ralph always loved his parents very much and would never say a bad word about either of them. He even once thrashed Wentworth Dougherty, our mutual friend, or rather acquaintance would be a better word to describe our relationship, I suppose. Well, he thrashed him for saying that his mother had a lover in London and his father was known to have multiple mistresses. It was true, actually, and Ralph knew that well, but he wouldn't let anyone speak ill of his parents. He really did love them, even if they paid him practically no attention. He would usually be taken care of by Dotty, the annoying house-elf you know, and Emmanuel, his teacher and sort of a… male-nanny. I actually wonder what happened to Emmanuel. He was away during the fire, somewhere in the Himalayas, I believe, looking for some rare herbs for his dodgy potion creations.'

As James stopped, to take a couple of swigs of chocolate from his mug, Harry pondered what he had known himself about Emmanuel. He had met the man in the catacombs, offering him the knowledge that he now had to beg for from a complete stranger. The stranger that had turned out to be so surprisingly forthcoming.

'Did he go to Grove School?' asked Harry, remembering what his cousin had said about it being the most exclusive school of magic in the British Isles, and probably in the world as well.

'Oh, yeah,' said James nonchalantly, as if it didn't actually matter. 'He was rather ambiguous when it came to his school. He would usually say that he loved it there. At least when he was at Grove he had the freedom he had never had at home. But then, he would always say that all the boys he associated with were dandies, idiots or power-hungry bastards of some affluent people. Of course, he had a knack for exaggeration, too. I know for the fact that Robert Home-Mogg was neither and he was a good friend of Ralph. He works in the Foreign Office at the Ministry now. And, obviously, Wentworth Dougherty, whom I've already mentioned, was no idiot or dandy. And he certainly wasn't power-hungry. He didn't have to be. His family was, and still is, one of the most affluent there are. I believe they live in Australia now. They've lived in Hong Kong for a while but I don't think they still do.'

'Did you go to Grove School together? I mean… You said that you have always been together… and erm…' Harry stopped, a bit embarrassed with his nosiness. What if James didn't go to school there and was ashamed because of it?

But the man didn't seem to mind the question. He snorted with laughter and said, 'No. I would have never been able to afford it. Besides, I was a simple farm boy. Who would want me in a school for children of the wizarding elite?'

From the way Mr Lovell talked about Grove, Harry concluded that it was a hindrance to him that he had not been allowed to attend the school. The boy decided not to mention it anymore, lest his companion decided he was being a nuisance on purpose and refused to answer any more of his questions. And Harry had still had many, some of them still in the process of materialising in his head.

'Do you know where he had been buried? I tried to look in the catacombs, but there's nothing there,' he said, hoping that he was indeed right and Ralph's grave was not in the mausoleum.

'Over there.' James pointed to a small, rocky island covered with trees, in the middle of the lake. 'There's a crypt for all the victims of the fire. Ralph, his parents, and Lady Elizabeth's parents are all buried there. Get a boat and go take a look.'

Harry fell silent for a moment before asking, 'Do you know of any… monuments… sort of… of Ralph? Anything beside the crypt? Is there anything?'

The boy remembered the statue, made of marble and diamonds, he had seen in the catacombs. He was interested to know whether its existence was a common knowledge or whether it was another secret and mysterious thing.

'No, I don't,' said James, shaking his head. 'Do you?' he asked suddenly, taking Harry aback.

'N-no,' said the boy, very unconvincingly. 'I was just interested…'

'Such an unusual question…' James hissed dangerously. 'One could almost think, a question one rarely asks unless one is quite certain of the answer…'

'I don't… Honestly, I was just curious.' Harry held up his hands defensively. For some reason, he felt a pang of fear. James could be scary if he only wanted to.

'Very well, that's all I know,' said Mr Lovell, rising from his seat and preparing to walk off.

'What? Wait, don't go! I've got another question!' Harry all but cried, jumping to his feet.

'I don't see why I should be honest with you if you fail to return the courtesy. You keep saying "no" when the answer is clearly "yes". Believe me, boy, I have lived much longer than you, and it's not very difficult to recognise a liar, especially one so unconvincing and so inexperienced… Have a good day.'

And with the final word, the man turned his back towards the gawping Harry and walked off. For a while, the boy stood there, rooted to the spot, his shocked gaze following the man all the way to the gates. However, the moment the man disappeared on the way to the village, he shook himself out of his reverie and ran towards the castle. Aunt Elizabeth must have returned already and he needed to ask her permission to take a boat to, as he would put it, _have some fun on the lake. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello! Thank you very much for all your reviews and likes! I always enjoy reading them. Here's chapter two for you.**

Chapter 2 – Of Graves and Mentors Again

That afternoon, James Lovell returned home angry and confused. He sat at the kitchen table as his girlfriend, Astra, made him a cup of strong tea.

'Thanks, I needed that,' he said, sighing and taking a sip from the porcelain dish.

'You look strained,' said Astra, her voice coarse with an unidentified foreign accent. 'What happened?' she asked, helping James to get rid of his coat, which he had neglected to do himself. She then took to massaging his stiff shoulders.

The man closed his eyes and succumbed to the pleasure. Concentrating on Astra's delicate touch was much better than thinking about the bizarre events of the day.

'James?' she prompted, her brow furrowing slightly. It was quite unlike him to be so secretive, especially about big things. And she could tell that whatever was bothering her boyfriend was very important.

'I... erm... I met someone,' he said, shifting his shoulders slightly, 'A... a boy... On the Selwyn's estate.'

'You met Harry Potter?' she asked, surprised, stopping the massage for a moment.

'Don't stop,' James murmured, leaning forward to make it easier for her to reach the parts of his back previously covered by the chair. 'And that was Harry Potter? Really?'

James snorted. Despite his closed eyes, he could tell that Astra was laughing at him.

'How could you have failed to recognise the most famous young wizard in Britain?' the woman asked incredulously, trying hard to control her amusement.

'I don't know,' James replied dryly. 'Could be because I had other things to think about. But what the hell is Harry Potter doing there, of all places?'

'Lady Elizabeth's his aunt,' said Astra with well-practised patience. 'He came to live with her, as she's his last surviving magical relative.'

'Really?' said James surprised. 'It's been such a long time since I have last read any magical genealogy that I have forgotten most of it.' He shook his head with annoyance. But it still didn't explain a lot. The man could not believe that he had failed to recognise Harry Potter, of all people. He had seen the boy so many times in newspaper pictures. And how on earth could he have confused him with Ralph? There was no doubt that Harry Potter did not look like Ralph Selwyn at all. Ralph's eyes were stormy-grey, his hair chestnut-coloured, and his whole body was formed completely differently. He was not as scrawny, and he was definitely taller.

James groaned, annoyed, startling Astra, but the woman quickly ignored the unusual behaviour of her boyfriend and resumed the massage.

But... Those movements... James could not get them out of his mind. Harry Potter's gestures, the way he walked, talked, and cocked his head... They were all Ralph's. Not to mention the knowledge. How on earth had the boy known that Ralph used to call him "Jamie"? One would say that it was not uncommon for men named James to use the diminutive, but he had never been called anything but James by anyone else.

He scratched the bridge of his nose. It was just too strange... too strange...

The next day Harry woke up with the sunrise. He was so excited about going to the little island that, without waiting for breakfast, he jumped out of his bed, washed and dressed, and ran towards the boathouse, eager to take off. He didn't even practise his singing, and since Mr Patterson would be coming in the afternoon anyway, the boy decided that it wouldn't hurt to leave it for later. Being half-way through the grassy field that made up the east side of the estate, Harry realised that he was cold. Immediately he began berating himself for forgetting to take a coat. His clothes were not charmed with a warming spell, effectively rendering him vulnerable to the elements. _Warming Spell. _Something clicked in his brain. He was supposed to find out how to heat up the water in the shower back at Hogwarts, which he had never got around to. There were just too many things going on at the time, and morning showers were degraded to being just a secondary priority. He made a mental note to ask Aunt Elizabeth before he left for school. She was sure to know some fine tricks.

'Oi! Boy! What are you doing here at this hour?' A harsh bellow made him turn away from the door to the boathouse he was about to open. With a deep sigh, Harry looked in the eyes of Tom Shandy, the groom whom Lady Elizabeth kept out of pure charity, to enable him to fund his studies of magical equines.

'I'm just taking a boat,' Harry replied testily. 'What? It's not forbidden.' His tone was far from polite, but he had no desire to be disturbed now. And, which was probably the dominating factor, he absolutely despised Tom Shandy.

'So early? It's barely eight in the morning,' said Tom suspiciously, 'Lady Elizabeth's probably still in bed. What are you doing here?'

'Taking a boat,' snarled Harry, then turned his back at the man and entered the boathouse. Of course, he didn't have to wait long for Tom to follow. 'What do you want?' he asked, opening the gate that led straight to the side of the lake. He then took a pair of paddles off the hooks on the wall put them in a punting boat and started dragging the boat down to the water, completely missing the smirk on Tom Shandy's face.

'I think you won't go far in that, kid,' said the man, trying to stifle his laughter.

For a moment, Harry contemplated showing Tom some rude hand gestures, but refrained himself, choosing to ignore the man instead. Having managed to pull the boat all the way to the lake, Harry stepped into the punt carefully and sat on the bottom. Slowly, prompted by the boy's energetic paddling, the boat moved away from the shore towards the small island that emerged among the fog in the distance.

'Potter!' shouted Tom Shandy, a hint of amusement in his voice. 'This lake is too deep for that boat! You'll drown yourself! And the paddles are not for punts!'

Snarling angrily, Harry carried on, refusing to dignify Tom with as much as a glance. 'Too late for that!' the boy shouted back. 'If I drown, tell my aunt that it's because you did not act when the time was right!'

'At least tap the boat with your wand and think about the place where you want it to take you!' shouted Tom a bit desperately. It was clear that he did not appreciate the perspective of telling Lady Elizabeth why her nephew failed to return from his escapade.

This caught Harry's attention. He remembered Hagrid tapping a boat with his umbrella when he came to introduce him to the wizarding world. Bearing that in mind, the boy took out his own wand and tapped the boat three times, thinking about the rocky island. Immediately, it felt as if the boat had suddenly had an engine installed. With the speed of a motorboat, the punt took Harry where he wanted, saving him the bother of paddling all the way, and probably a cold plunge, too, if what Tom said about the suitability of the boat was true.

Harry felt cold chills running down his spine the moment his feet hit the sandy-ashen shore of the little island. Contrary to the sun-lit, short-shaven lawns and gardens that surrounded the Selwyn Castle, the place was dreary, the air was heavy and very humid, and the worst thing of all, it smelled of oranges, making Harry feel a bit queasy.

The tiny beach which the boy had disembarked upon had a shape of a perfect half-circle. There was nothing but grey sand there, very fine in texture, similar to volcanic ashes, and occasional rock here and there. Harry squeezed the handle of his wand in his hand, taking a couple of deep breaths. He kept telling himself that it was only a grave of the members of his extended family, a place where nothing bad could ever happen to him. And he really wanted to believe the voice of reason of his subconscious. But he just simply couldn't. His instincts shouted to him to get back onto the boat and get the hell away from there, and the overwhelming reek of orange peel should have been enough of an argument to follow the advice. But Harry was famous for his curiosity for a reason, and such a simple thing as instinct was not going to dissuade him.

The boy took a couple of shaky steps towards the wall of rock on the other side of the small beach. There was a heavy, two-winged door made of copper installed into the stone. It was simple, without any engravings, the kind one would expect to find in dungeons and old prisons. With the feeling that he would probably regret it later, Harry extended his arm to open the creepy door. The handle was rusted and seemed fragile to the touch, yet there was nearly no resistance as he pulled on it. The door opened with a deafening creak, almost disproportionately loud, increasing the already overwhelming feeling of anxiety.

The boy left the door ajar when, with a quiet _Lumos,_ he entered the mausoleum. To his surprise, he found himself in a small, stone-walled chamber with unlit torches on the walls. There were no scary sculptures, no altars and _no way forward. _Frowning, Harry began to inspect the walls, holding his wand close in order to see everything better.

But the walls were completely blank. There was nothing that could possibly suggest that it was the resting place of the five victims of the great fire. He walked twice around the room, thinking that he may have been missing something the first time round. Nothing. Not even an uneven piece of wall. Everything was perfectly shaped and smooth, almost unnaturally so.

'Ralph, where are you...' the boy whispered, running his hand across the glass-like surface of the wall. And as he said it, before his very eyes, an inscription began to carve itself in the polished plaster.

_Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales awake;_

_For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take..._

Marvelling at the beauty of the script, Harry stopped thinking of any danger. He closed his eyes and stroked the epitaph reverently. It suddenly became very clear to him that whatever it was that guarded the tomb meant him no harm. He did not know where that realisation had come from. It was like recapturing the emotion that only a recollection of a long-gone schoolboy friendship could induce, quite abruptly and without a warning, making one wistful and sad for the great days, left in the distant memory of careless hours in the sunshine or in the rain, spent on the school's playing fields in the company of friends. But it also brought forth the visions of the perfect little world, which Harry may have never experienced before coming to live with his aunt, but which he was more than willing to make up for now.

The boy didn't understand why the spirit of the Dark magic, older than the universe itself, deemed it necessary for him to feel the longing for the things he had never been allowed to experience, but he felt it nonetheless. He could sense the emotions building up in him that certainly could not have been created by his own memories. He felt the joys of victory, and the discomfort and pain of failure. He heard the catches of the songs whose tunes had never even fallen on his ears. He heard the laughter and cries of unknown voices. He felt the twisting and turning of his stomach as the completely unknown echoes of augurs of triumphs and disasters made themselves known in his head.

_Voices and nightingales awake..._ he thought, barely registering the fact.

'Do you understand at last?' asked a deep voice from behind him, making the boy jump. He turned around to face none other but Emmanuel. The man, dressed as usual in a set of immaculate wizarding robes, made of silvery-blue cashmere, was looking at Harry kindly, but a smile on his face failed to materialise. Emmanuel did not believe in such a trifle thing as smiles. As he had the time to realise during his long life, smiles had the power of being deceptive. And he wanted to be sincere.

'What should I understand?' whispered Harry, his eyes wide, as he stared anxiously at the man. He had no idea whether he could fully trust him, and even if his subconscious tried to convey that Emmanuel did not pose a threat, the boy felt rather apprehensive. After all, he had only ever met him in rather unambiguous situations that clearly demanded a high degree of caution.

'You, my boy, should understand yourself,' Emmanuel said enigmatically. 'The workings of your own mind, and the cravings of your wayward soul...'

'What are you doing here?' asked Harry, his body language still clearly indicating that if only a chance unravelled, he would flee. 'You were... you were down _there..._' He swallowed heavily.

Emmanuel looked as if he was about to chuckle, however, no kind of laughter erupted from the old man's chest. 'Yes, I was there,' he said lightly. 'We seem to be destined to meet no matter how much you struggle to avoid it.'

The man glanced at Harry with a critical eye, as if he was evaluating his worth. 'You haven't practised your singing today,' he said sternly, as if shirking one's duties was an unpardonable sin, even, or maybe especially, when done to appease one's curiosity.

The boy looked up, surprised. 'No,' he admitted, feeling a bit confused. 'I didn't have time... I wanted to get here and see the tomb,' he said, wondering why on earth he was explaining himself to this man. He was just so... imposing. And, somewhere deep down, Harry knew that it may have also been the mirror of Ralph Selwyn's feelings towards Emmanuel.

'That's no excuse,' the man argued authoritatively. 'If you want to excel at the Magic of Music, it must take precedence. Duty first, pleasure last,' he said, repeating the phrase Harry had already heard him speak in one of the dreams, when Ralph, ten years old at the time, was caught playing outside instead of translating Virgil.

Harry hung his head, unable to understand why he felt so ashamed upon being chastised by an almost complete stranger.

'I... Well, I didn't think it would matter all that much,' he mumbled apologetically. 'To miss one session... After all, Mr Patterson is coming in the afternoon...' The boy felt silent, suspecting that he only dug himself deeper and deeper with every uttered word.

'I can, of course, appreciate that you have never had anyone to teach you consistency,' said Emmanuel, never the one to be unmoved by a repentant child. 'However, you should know that perfection only ever comes from diligent dedication. You can't expect to become a great Sono Wizard if you do not commit yourself fully to practising singing.'

Harry nodded, showing that he understood precisely where the man was coming from.

'Last time... last time you said that you would help me understand,' said Harry, feeling a sudden surge of courage, small, but enough for him to let go of the wall and start looking at Emmanuel curiously. 'You knew about my dreams... and you said that it was him, I mean Ralph, that told you.' He stopped, unsure of how to ask his question to convey the right message.

'Yes, I knew about your dreams,' said Emmanuel with a sigh. 'And it was indeed Ralph who told me. I'm afraid I can't exactly tell you why you are having the dreams as he did not think it prudent for me to know. I suppose it's a way for his memory to live on, but, as I said, it's probably just a fanciful guess.'

'A way for his memory to live on?' asked Harry, baffled. 'What am I? Some sort of a medium?'

'No, not really,' said Emmanuel, stroking his chin thoughtfully. 'I think Ralph wanted to gift you with some happy memories. I think he wanted you to understand that life is not just black and white and that you can choose what path of life to pursue. You're not automatically doomed to live your life as it was planned for you. You have many choices, and that's the thing that will shape you in your life more than any past deeds you may have unwittingly done.'

Harry stared at the old man. 'So, what you're telling me is that he just wanted to show me that there was more to life than I was being given?'

'I don't know, Harry. It's only my assumption,' said Emmanuel, his voice somewhat tired. 'But I think it may be faulty, especially since I have never known Ralph to show such consideration, not to mention that it is hardly the most prudent thing to do when one is already on the other side. I think he may have an agenda. One I'm not privy to.'

They stood in silence for a moment. The only sound that reached them was the hum of the waves on the lake and the soft chirping of birds from the outside.

'Why me?' asked Harry suddenly, breaking the silence. 'Why not some other deprived orphan? Everything seems to be happening to me all the time, as if there were no other people on the planet,' he all but whined, pushing forward a very resigned expression.

Emmanuel looked at him shrewdly. 'You know, my boy, there are people whom Destiny chooses to bear the full weight of their lives alone in a belief that they are strong enough to go through with it and succeed. You have been given many a chance, and even if you have not used some of them, more were presented to you to try again. Not many can say the same. Regardless of how foul your life may seem to be, you should make the best of it, because you clearly do have the potential for greatness. Life may not have been particularly kind to you, but you need to be strong. You need to know how to take care of yourself. The world needs you to be a leader, not a follower, and leaders must be strong.'

Harry considered the words. There was much that sounded like a very plausible explanation in them, but he still remained unconvinced.

'But what leader?' he asked, almost desperately. 'I am not fit to be a leader! Dumbledore's a leader, hell, even Voldemort is one! I could never be a leader! I do not have the skill, the charisma... and neither do I want to be one!'

Harry stared wide-eyed at the man before him, the man who tried to convince him that his destiny was set in stone, and all his misfortunes had only made the stone harder.

'Oh Harry, Harry...' Emmanuel sighed, shaking his head. 'You have been deprived of your parents when you were just one year old; a regrettable loss that could have been avoided if only the people in power to halt it were less hot-headed and more sensible. But the deprivation did not stop at that. You were then put in a household where you were denied the warmth of a real family and the joys of youth. Then you have been placed at Hogwarts, which may not be a bad thing in itself, but the education you have received there is severely lacking; they do not help you to develop your skills, nay, they deny you the possibility to do so. Do you understand?'

No, Harry did not understand. He did not know what the man was trying to tell him by pointing out the obvious. Therefore he shook his head and waited for an explanation.

'What I'm trying to say is that you have been thrust into the world you don't know, completely unprepared, denied the choices of how to live and how to receive your education, just as you have been denied for your whole life. No one bothered to help you, no one even tried to help you. Being a leader requires independence, both of thought and will, which is something you have not been granted. However, the Destiny seems to be laughing in the face of those who fought to restrain you. This year, you have been discovering the world, the Magic, and all that comes with it. Don't you see that, Harry? You are paving your own way, just as it was foretold.'

The boy's shoulders slumped. For some reason, Emmanuel's words did not raise his spirits. The idea that there was a Destiny hanging over his head made him feel miserable, rather than secure.

'But it doesn't matter,' said Harry, shrugging in submission.

Emmanuel looked at him harshly. 'How so?' he asked, feeling some resentment for the boy's weakness. Where was his pride and self-esteem? Where was his determination and competitiveness?

The boy sighed. 'Well, Voldemort killed my parents, he has tried to kill me for thirteen years ever since the night I vanquished him. On the other hand, there's Dumbledore, a great man, that's for sure, but I just can't understand him. One time, he behaves like he actually cares about me, and the next I feel like he's trying to manipulate me and force me to do his will. But they _are_ the leaders. And I know I will never be able to be one with them around. I can't kill Voldemort, though God only knows how much I'd like to, but I simply can't. He's too strong; I don't have the skills and power to do that. And, obviously, I could never oust Dumbledore. He's a great man, a perfect leader for the Light. After all, he's the only one whom Voldemort is afraid of.'

Emmanuel cocked his head, his thoughts changing from the ones that wanted to lash out on the boy for his idiotic lack of faith in himself and the ones that just wanted to console him and tell him that no one expected him to kill the Dark Lord, whatever inane legends may have evolved around the two of them. Instead, he turned into his stern-teacher-mode and settled for some history.

'Harry, do you know why Lord Voldemort attacked your parents?' he asked, though he was pretty certain of the answer. He was surprised to see the boy nod.

'Well, sort of,' Harry admitted. 'I think it was to get to me. When a Dementor's near, I always hear my mum's screams and him telling her to stand aside and save herself.' He snorted. 'As if he would have let her live!'

Emmanuel gave the boy an appraising look. He was, indeed, right, but only to some extent. 'You are both right and wrong,' he said and continued, seeing the look of surprise on the boy's face, 'Yes, Voldemort wanted to get to you, but it was also about your mother. Do you know the story behind your mother's and father's marriage?' he asked. Harry shook his head. 'I thought so. You see, the matter is much more complex than what you may be thinking. It had a lot to do with the social mores and wizarding traditions, which were, and still are, closely observed among the upper echelons of our society.

'Let me tell you a story. Yes, a story. A real life story,' he said, seeing Harry's incredulous expression. 'It had all begun before you were even born, obviously, when your father, James Potter, barely eleven back then, put his foot down and refused to go to Grove School. It was all because of a very close friend of his, one Remus Lupin, a farm boy who lived with his deeply impoverished, albeit pureblood, family in a run-down cottage outside Roughton Hall, the Potters' country seat. Lupin couldn't afford to go to Grove and James did not want to part from him. His father tried to talk him out of it, but nothing he did could make James change his mind. Finally, after many a row and many a sleepless night, Henry Potter, that's your grandfather's name, was convinced by Lady Yekaterina, your grandmother, to let the boy go to Hogwarts. And off he went, leaving his parents worried about the company their only son and heir would be keeping. As it turned out, their worries were not without reason, because your father eventually fell madly in love with a Muggleborn girl; what's worse, he failed to terminate this unseemly affair when he left the school.'

'How dare you to talk about my mother like that!' Harry bellowed angrily, interrupting Emmanuel's monologue. '_Unseemly affair_?' he parroted. 'How dare you?'

'I'm merely recalling how it had been seen through the prism of the social mores of the day,' the man said unapologetically, squinting dangerously at the boy. 'The magical society is deeply conservative, especially among the upper classes, which go to any lengths to preserve the purity of their lines. Your mother had been a_ hindrance_ both genetically and politically. That's a fact of life. May I continue now?'

Taking in an angry breath, Harry nodded, accepting the explanation as valid, even though he still felt hurt.

'Good,' said Emmanuel, surprisingly agreeably. 'Well, so your father, James, went on with this _relationship_, completely against the wishes of his family. What's worse, he married your mother in a Muggle church. And a Catholic church, too! Believe me, Harry, when I say that it was the final straw for your grandparents.'

'But why did he do that?' asked Harry, completely taken aback by the fact that his mother had been a Catholic. 'Couldn't they just get married in a wizarding church, if they needed such a ceremony?'

Emmanuel sighed. 'I'm afraid I was not privy to that information, and with your parents now dead, I suppose I never shall be. It's my assumption, however, that your mother, who had grown up in the Muggle world, held a great dose of sentiment for her old parish church, because that was precisely the church they had got married at.'

Harry nodded understandingly. Of course, for obvious reasons, he had never felt the same about any church he had ever been to with the Dursleys, but he could appreciate that his mother had come from a much happier household and was rather attached to their ways.

The boy frowned. But wasn't that precisely why wizards hated Muggleborns? Because they felt so at ease with the Muggle world and had so much sentiment for it that they wanted to implement parts of it into the magical world? Destroying, on the way, the indigenous traditions of British wizards? Confused, Harry decided that he could appreciate both sides of the argument, which was actually quite troubling, especially considering the fact that he had never felt anything but hostility towards the ways the Muggles had treated him and that he wanted nothing to do at all with the world he hated since he had been forcefully inducted into it at the fragile age of one.

Meanwhile, Emmanuel continued with his story. 'After your parents got married, they moved to a cottage that had long belonged to the Evans family. They lived there for a couple of months and your mother worked for Albus Dumbledore, gathering intelligence for some secret club of his. Something with a phoenix in its name, not sure what exactly. Albus has a tendency to set up exclusive groups. I believe he led quite a few of them during the last century. Whereas your father, well, I believe he worked as an Unspeakable at the Ministry of Magic and also did some part-time Auror activities. He researched Dark magic in the Department of Mysteries and the extracurricular activities were of great help to him. And, obviously, sometime later, your mother got pregnant with you, and when you were born, they moved out of the Evans' cottage, which was a bit too small for a growing family, and moved in to Godric's Hollow, a wizarding village in Wales. Quite a picturesque place, you should visit it one day, my boy. Well, anyway, in the meantime, Tom Riddle, self-styling himself as Lord Voldemort, began to hunt your mother because she broke into one of his manors and stole a very precious thing, apparently, a book of some sorts. Don't ask me how she'd done it, or what book it was, as I don't know. The details of the mission have never been made public and the book is still in the possession of Albus Dumbledore. The gossip has it that it was a book about the King's Men, but as far as I know, no one has ever written anything about them.'

'The King's Men?' asked Harry, confused. He had never heard that term before.

Emmanuel sighed. It was clearly difficult for him to accept that the boy had very little knowledge of the wizarding world, regardless of how much he had tried to make up for it.

'It's one of our most famous legends,' he explained. 'When William the Conqueror crowned himself the King of England, he ordered to search the country for the most able wizards to serve as his helpers. And yes, before you ask, he was, indeed, a wizard himself. Most royal houses are. So his soldiers went out to look for men of great strength and beauty, and of even greater magical power. It took them five years, but finally they returned with six noblemen, a Metamorphmagus, a Parselmouth, an Alchemist, a Sono Wizard, an Animagus, and someone whom people took vulgarly to call a Mind Reader. Since that time, it is understood, the King's Men, and later the descendants of the original Six, had stood beside every monarch of England. They did not defect even when the monarchy had been at its most dire. However, in seventeen-fifty, they suddenly disappeared without a trace. Lots of legends arose around that. Some say they got fed up with the Hanoverians and left, others come up with some conspiracy theories. For example, that all of the King's Men had been poisoned or killed in some cowardly, back-stabbing manner. Believe whichever theory you like. The thing is, however, that it is universally believed that the King's Men shall return one day and restore peace and prosperity to our realm. But it's just a legend, and not a well-proved one.'

Harry remained silent. He found Emmanuel's tale fascinating and didn't want him to stop talking. It felt like being Ralph again and sitting in the schoolroom, listening to the old man's incredible lessons and his gorgeous stories, only made better by his amazing, almost bard-like skills.

It seemed that Emmanuel did not need to be waited upon. He loved teaching, and it had been a long time since he last had a chance to relish in filling young minds with grains of knowledge that would later blossom into wisdom.

'But I digress,' he said, remembering that they had not been talking about the King's Men but rather about Harry's family and its untimely demise. 'As I was saying, your mother stole a book from Voldemort. Whether it was indeed a manuscript about the King's Men or not remains a subject of debate, nevertheless, Tom Riddle held the thing very precious. Not to mention the disgrace of a Muggleborn breaking his defences and sneaking into one of his most guarded fortresses. He could not let it go. He prepared the plan of the attack on your parent's house in Godric's Hollow. Meanwhile, your father also started collaborating with Albus Dumbledore, undoubtedly having been talked into it by your mother, as was the common assumption among the people in the Potter family's set of friends and allies. It enraged them all, because Dumbledore had fought for years to destroy wizarding culture. Not directly, mind you. He just campaigned for greater rights for Muggleborns and for prohibiting much of the traditional British customs, like for example the Night of Rituals during the Winter Solstice. It's also because of him that the Dark magic is still so harshly punished. The MTories wanted to change the law back in the nineteen-sixties, but Dumbledore organised a full-blown campaign against their proposed bill and it all ended in shambles.

'Well, anyway, before I digress too much again, Voldemort decided to attack your family exactly because of that. He wanted to clear the wizarding society from those who opposed his politics, and those who threatened the world he held most dear. It's a pity that his formerly excellent ideas turned out to be so fundamental and brutal. He doesn't even respect his own people anymore. He turned into someone one would not have expected a young boy he had been to turn into. It's a regrettable loss of a brilliant young mind, indeed. It's really a shame no one had helped him when he was still fit for re-socialisation.'

Harry stared at Emmanuel. Was he really feeling sorry for Voldemort? Still, it may have been silly, but Harry felt a pang of pity as well. No, not for Voldemort. Voldemort had done far too much wrong, he had subjected people to far too much suffering. But he couldn't help himself but feel pity for the young man that had been Tom Riddle, an orphan, just like him, an abandoned child whom no one loved and who was forced to pave his own way in a world he came to love dearly. So dearly, indeed, that he couldn't look at what had been happening with it and began to act. Act foolishly, as it turned out, because he became a bully and the other side was shown in the right. Had Tom Riddle acted more reasonably, he may have been sitting among the greatest statesmen the wizarding world had ever had. However, as he decided to fight a guerrilla fight, which eventually turned out to be a fight against the establishment, and innocent men, women and children died, the cause was lost, as was his place amongst the greats. Now, he would forever be a villain, a black smudge on the snow-white plate of history.

'But why did he tell my mother to stand aside?' asked Harry, feeling his mind boggle.

Emmanuel's face visibly saddened, however much the man wanted to remain unemotional. 'I'm afraid the only answer I've got is that he wanted to kill you first to make her suffer,' he said, looking at the boy with pity. 'He certainly would not have let her go. Your mother was his primary target. And however I resent her attitude towards the wizarding culture, I can't help but be inspired by her courage and loyalty, not to mention her boundless love for you, her only son, whom she was ready to die for to protect.'

Harry nodded, accepting the praise on behalf of his mother. Previously, hearing how much she disliked wizarding customs, he felt a bit apprehensive. Of course, he loved her. Whatever she was, she was his mother and that would never change. But her contempt for all that he now held dear made him slightly wary of her. However, now, hearing Emmanuel complement her in such a fashion endeared him to look at his mother in a slightly different light. Sure, she may not have been the kind of a person he would now like to choose for a friend. Lately, he wanted wizarding friends, who would show him all the beauties and charms of the world he now belonged to. Friends like Rupert and Olivia, who knew magical culture and customs and could easily give his birthright back to him. But he needn't look at his late mother in the same manner. She was the one who gave him life, twice, if he was to believe that it was her protection that saved him from the Killing Curse, she loved him deeply and cared for him. Nothing else mattered. He didn't know her. He didn't know how she behaved, what she was like, what kind of music she enjoyed, what clothes she wore or what was her favourite colour. He could never say 'My mother wouldn't have liked that.' because he didn't know what she liked. But she loved him, and it was all that mattered.

'I think you should be getting back,' said Emmanuel, breaking Harry's stream of thoughts. 'Lady Elizabeth will probably start worrying, and believe me, you don't want to be at the receiving end when her worry turns into anger.'

'What are _you_ going to do, sir?' asked Harry, thinking whether he would ever see the old man again. He had so much he wanted to ask!

'Ah, there are so many places around the world I have not had the privilege to see yet,' Emmanuel sighed wistfully, thinking about the ziggurats of South America. 'I may do some travelling. See what's out there to see before my body finally ceases to obey my will.'

'Will I get any more of the dreams?' the boy asked, his voice clearly showing how used to them he had got since he had seen the first one of many of the glimpses of Ralph's childhood.

'I don't know, Harry,' said Emmanuel. 'It does not depend on me. Ralph was quite capricious. I suppose he still is, even now, when he no longer resides among us.'

The two of them, the man and the boy, stood for a moment in a calming silence.

'It's time for you to go,' decided Emmanuel. 'You need to get ready for your music lesson and your aunt is probably really worried about you. Before I go, promise me that you will study the Magic of Music to the best of your ability,' the man said, his voice very insistent and his hand grabbing Harry's arm, emphasising how important a matter he considered it to be.

'I promise,' the boy replied, looking Emmanuel straight in the eye.

The man seemed to be breathing a barely noticeable sigh of relief. 'Good,' he said, nodding. 'I've never had the opportunity to hear you sing,' he said regretfully. 'Well, I shan't be away forever. There will yet be a chance. Goodbye and good luck, Harry Potter.'

With the last words, Harry felt thick wind, smelling strongly of orange blossom, gather around him and whisk him away from the place where he stood. He closed his eyes and relished in the wonderful feeling of flying on a wave of Dark magic. The next thing he knew, he was sprawled on the soft, Persian carpet in his drawing room, having flown in through the open window, staring straight into his aunt's very angry face.

'Whoops,' he said, hoisting himself up from the floor and straightening his clothes. For some unfathomable reason, he thought that he may not be in as much trouble if at least his dress looked presentable. After all, he had spent enough time with Lady Elizabeth to know exactly where her priorities lay.

'Whoops?' she hissed angrily. 'Is that all you have to say for yourself? Where have you been the entire morning?' she asked, letting on just how annoyed she was with him. Inwardly, Harry said goodbye to his hope that his neat clothing would soften Lady Elizabeth's disposition.

'Erm... Punting?' he tried foolhardily.

'Punting?' the woman repeated incredulously. '_Punting_?! In the middle of the _winter_? On the lake at least _three times_ too deep? Try again, boy, or you will be tasting the delicious English mustard on your tongue,' she said, her nostrils flaring.

Harry's eyes turned wide. She wouldn't, would she? That foul thing would burn a hole through his tongue! But well, of course, she would! After all, she was one of those delightfully old-fashioned relics who still cherished the idea that physical punishments were the most effective and lamented with true grief the universal demise of such practices among the more liberal wizards, which she firmly believed led to complete dissolution of the old values.

'But really, I have!' Harry said, raising his hands defensively. 'Ask Tom Shandy if you don't believe me! He caught me dragging a punt onto the lake and started giving his obviously unwelcome advice!'

'It doesn't matter!' Lady Elizabeth said dangerously, raising her voice slightly. 'You did not come to breakfast, you did not inform me of what you were planning. What if something happened to you? And, on top of that, you go outside, in this awful chill, without so much as a coat! Are you daft, boy?'

'But you said I could take a boat! You said it yesterday!' he cried, suddenly growing angry.

'A boat, yes. I did not tell you to take a punt! It's not warm enough and you have no idea how to operate a punt! You could have drowned yourself! Can you even swim?'

'Of course, I can! What's difficult about swimming?'

'Oh, nothing... Icy cold water, magical creatures in the lake. There's no trouble with that at all,' said Lady Elizabeth sarcastically. 'I do hope you had fun. Now, go take a hot shower and come to the conservatory for lunch. You need to eat something before Mr Patterson comes. We will discuss your punishment in the evening, when you are done with your lessons and I am back from the Ministry.'

'A little bit higher,' said Mr Patterson, his agile fingers, albeit visibly old, danced along the piano-keys with the energy of a man in the prime of youth.

_Speed bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing_

_Onward, the sailors cry_

_Carry the lad that's born to be king_

_Over the sea to Skye._

_Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar_

_Thunder clouds rend the air_

_Baffled our foes stand on the shore_

_Follow the will not dare._

'A bit better,' praised the teacher. 'A bit better, indeed. I just wish you could convey more meaning in the words, because it's not the word that matters as much as the actual image that a Sono Wizard wishes to create. Try to sing the first four verses again.'

_Speed bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing_

_Onward, the..._

'No... No, stop...!' cried Mr Patterson desperately, even though Harry was certain that he actually did quite well. 'A bird on the wing...' the man hummed, correcting Harry's intonation. 'Do you hear that? It goes higher and higher... The verse is like a climb upwards. Try again.'

Harry felt like sighing, but unfortunately Mr Patterson was not as lenient as his teachers at Hogwarts. He was one of the generation of Masters, very demanding, not making any allowances for whining or lack of discipline. He was, by Harry's own assessment, brilliant but scary. But it only made his praise feel more real, giving Harry a much greater sense of accomplishment.

The boy tried again and again, but Mr Patterson must have had a particularly bad day. When they had finished the practice two hours later, the boy was tired and angry, having been praised barely five times throughout the lesson, and having been put down for the rest of the time for 'Inadequate notes!', or 'Too high!', or 'You're not even trying!', or even 'You're lazy! I don't believe you have practised once since the last time I've been here!'

Frustrated, Harry dropped his sheet-music the moment Mr Patterson ended the practice and stormed out of the room. He had been so angry he didn't care about the man who started spluttering about rude and unappreciative brats just when Harry was in the process of slamming the door of the music room.

That night, when Harry lay on his bed, begging the sleep to take his mind away, he thought about the day he had. The day that had started so well and finished so lousy.

'And I want one hundred and fifty lines of Georgics for that stunt!' The shrill voice of his aunt still resounded in his mind, preventing relaxation. 'And you will write them tomorrow, before you leave for school! I will not have such idiocy here!'

All would be well, Harry thought, if she had just left it at that. But no, she had to go and fetch a mossy bottle full of some amber-coloured liquid.

'It's for pneumonia,' Lady Elizabeth said, clearly enjoying the situation. 'Two spoonfuls for you, young man, open up!'

Unwittingly, Harry opened his mouth and the next thing he knew was a large spoon full of the syrup barging into his mouth. Oh, how dreadful it was! The boy had never tasted anything alike! He spat up the whole thing immediately, straight at Aunt Elizabeth's best business robes, in which she had been dressed since her visit to the Ministry of Magic in the early afternoon.

'Well, we'll just have another spoonful,' she said cheerfully, seemingly completely undisturbed by her nephew's reaction. 'Open up! There's still two spoonfuls to go!'

And Harry had no other option but to obey. And he still cursed himself for that. The foul taste lingered in his mouth, poisoning his sleep.

'What's that?' he had managed to choke out, after having been indulged with Aunt Elizabeth's magical mixture.

'Oh, it's a concoction made from hippogriff's bowel movements and the crow's hind feathers. My mother's speciality. Marvellous for preventing infections!'

She seemed not to bother that Harry had turned a bit green hearing the news.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 – The Wind of Change

It was a thing almost unheard of to have any changes in the staff during the school year. It was a thing strange like none other, one very peculiar, indeed. It was no wonder then that having sat down at the Gryffindor table, sighing with contentment, happy to be back at school, Harry experienced quite a shock seeing a new face at the head table and an old face missing.

'Where's McGonagall?' he asked Hermione, still scrutinising the teachers very closely. 'And who's that man?' He pointed discreetly towards an old gentleman, who looked very much like Mr Patterson, his music teacher. Actually, Harry thought, the newcomer reminded him, in a way, of Emmanuel. There was something that told him that whoever that man was, he was one of the old-school masters.

'Professor McGonagall went to Switzerland,' the girl whispered in reply. 'I don't know why. That's all we've heard at the Headquarters.'

Harry frowned thoughtfully. What would a woman her age be doing in Switzerland? Surely not skiing?

'What about that old man? Right there,' he asked again, pointing to the new member of the staff.

But Hermione only shook her head. 'Don't know,' she murmured. 'Maybe a replacement for Professor McGonagall?'

Harry nodded. It was a plausible explanation, and also the most probable reason for the old man's presence. Deciding that he would have to wait until the end of the beginning-of-term formal hall to find out, Harry continued with his dinner. Drinking pumpkin juice to wash down the delicious roasted duck he had eaten, the boy felt a pang of longing for elderflower and citrus cordial, Dotty's speciality. He discovered it a couple of days into his Christmas break and enjoyed drinking it whenever it struck his fancy. He was, however, pretty certain that Hogwarts' house-elves did not have the cordial on offer.

'Umbridge...' muttered Ron gloomily, putting down his cutlery and staring at the professor who seemed to be particularly satisfied with something.

'You can't make her leave by just staring, Ron,' said Hermione sensibly.

'Yeah, I know. But it makes me feel better,' the boy replied, picking up his fork and resuming the shovelling of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

Amused, Harry shook his head and looked at the head table just at the moment Professor Dumbledore was rising from his seat.

'May I have your attention, please!' said the Headmaster, his voice as cheerful as ever. Instantly, all conversation died down, allowing the professor to give his welcome-back speech. 'Thank you!' he said, smiling at the pupils gathered in the Great Hall. 'I'm really glad that we are all here today, rested after the Christmas break, ready to face the challenges of the Hilary term. Before we all go to lay our heads onto our fluffy pillows, I have some announcements to make. As some of you may have noticed, Professor McGonagall is not with us today. I'll have you know that the professor won't be with us at least until the end of the school year, as she has left for Switzerland two days ago for personal reasons. It's a regrettable loss of a valuable teacher, but I'm sure you'll do just as well under the tutelage of our supply professor. We had to make some adjustments to accommodate the latest changes, but I'm sure you won't mind. Professor Dolores Umbridge has graciously agreed to take over the position of Transfiguration Mistress.'

Dumbledore paused for a moment to take a breath, but it was enough for the pupils to start whispering.

'Umbridge?' hissed Hermione, enraged. 'How can Professor Dumbledore make this woman a teacher of such a difficult discipline?'

'Well, he let her be a teacher in the first place,' muttered Harry, still staring at the headmaster incredulously, as if he couldn't believe what he had just heard. 'Wonder who's going to teach Defence now...' he mused, looking at the Toad. It explained her self-satisfied smirk.

'I only hope it's not Snape,' said Ron, observing the head table warily.

But, as they talked, Dumbledore unveiled his plans. And it was, indeed, Professor Snape who was going to take over the Defence Against the Dark Arts post.

'No...' Ron and Harry whined in unison, accompanied by a number of other pupils. From the feeble round of polite applause that followed the announcement, everyone could tell that generally only a handful of upper-classmen didn't mind the change. After all, they were _specialists_, who enjoyed Potions and had chosen to continue to learn from Professor Snape throughout their N.E.W.T.s forms. Their only regret may have been that now they would have the man for Defence and not for their precious Potions.

'Yes, I know what you think,' said Dumbledore with a twinkle in his blue eyes, however, his next words betrayed how little idea he actually had about the workings of his pupils' minds. 'Professor Snape is a brilliant Potions Master, but I assure you that he has all the credentials for teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts as well. I am also certain that our new Potions Master, Professor Horace Slughorn, will have no problems filling the gap.' Here, Dumbledore pointed to the greying gentleman that had interested Harry a while before. There was a round of polite applause when Slughorn stood to his feet and bowed courteously from the neck.

'Slughorn... Slughorn...' muttered Harry, absolutely certain that he had already heard that name somewhere. Hermione shot him an odd glance.

'However,' continued Dumbledore, raising his voice to calm the crowd, 'as we are in a dire need of a housemaster for the House of Gryffindor, I decided to give the post to Professor Slughorn. But don't worry, Gryffindors, the Professor used to work here in the forties and fifties, also as a housemaster, and later had been a housemaster at Grove School for more than two decades, before finally retiring. He has graciously agreed to come to Hogwarts and bestow his great wealth of knowledge and experience on you all, and I do hope that you will make a good use of it. Now, off you trot!'

Following the other Gryffindors led by Mark Rawley, a seventh-year and their house captain, Harry walked the corridors of Hogwarts towards their common room. Apparently, Professor Slughorn wanted to meet with them before they all retired to their respective beds and thus, as Rawley had already informed them in his snide, self-important manner, they were to remain in the common room upon entrance.

'Slughorn! Of course!' whispered Harry, suddenly remembering where he had heard the name before.

'What about him, mate?' asked Ron, completely oblivious to his friend's internal battle with his own mind to release the prized information.

'He was at my aunt's Boxing Day Hunt!' the boy told his friends quietly. 'That's where I've heard the name before...'

Hermione looked at him sceptically. 'Really? Then why didn't you remember him if you went hunting together?'

Harry felt his cheeks prickle slightly and looked away. 'I didn't go,' he mumbled, unwilling to provide any further details.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. 'Oh, indeed?'

'Yes, if you must know!' said Harry, suddenly rather irritated. 'I didn't!'

'Whoa! Calm down, mate,' Ron tried to salvage the situation before it evolved into a full-blown argument.

But Hermione wouldn't let go that easily. 'Why didn't you go, Harry?' she asked curiously. She was sure that Harry had been out hunting on Boxing Day. After all, what would have been the reason not to? It was her suspicion that he was trying to appease her sensibilities by denying his participation.

'I don't want to talk about it,' the boy replied, refusing to look at Hermione. It was too embarrassing to admit to having been caught drinking. Well, not _drinking _per se, but the fact that Dotty had found the bottles smelling of firewhiskey and that she had informed Lady Elizabeth was as good as being caught red-handed.

'I see,' said Hermione, squinting at the boy suspiciously.

Harry sighed exasperatedly, knowing precisely what sort of thoughts had been going through the girl's mind. 'Really, Hermione,' he said with defeat, 'you don't need to know that. What's done is done and nothing will change it. I have not participated in the hunt, and I do not intend to explain myself to you. The reason for that is between my aunt, Rupert and me, and I don't want others to know.'

Hermione nodded in agreement but her pursed lips told Harry that she was far from satisfied with his answer. But, as the boy realised, he didn't really care about that as long as she stopped asking questions.

After they entered the common room they noticed that their favourite place in front of the fireplace had already been taken by a group of first years.

'No way am I sitting anywhere else,' said Ron darkly. 'I've spent four and a half years in this school. I've got the priority.' And before Hermione had a chance to stop him, the boy walked over to the _squirts _to _persuade them _to find some other place to _squeeze their sorry little arses in._

'That was really uncalled for, Ronald,' said Hermione, but nonetheless took one of the abandoned armchairs. Ron grinned at Harry behind her back.

'Why are you so cross with everyone today?' asked Weasley, trying to wind the girl up even more. 'Is it that day...'

'Don't you dare finish that sentence!' Hermione screeched, jumping to her feet and interrupting the boy's question. 'Good Lord, why I'm even friends with the two of you, I'll never know...' she said, clutching her head. Meanwhile, Harry and Ron were shaking with laughter. 'It's not funny!' she roared, clenching her fists, which only made them laugh harder. 'Fine! I won't give you my notes this term and we'll see who'll have the last laugh when you fail your O.W.L.s!'

'Come on, Hermione, are you saying that we are incapable of passing our OWLs without your notes?' asked Harry, baiting her. 'Have you really got that little faith in us?'

The girl snorted, plonking herself back in her armchair. 'Little faith?' she said. 'No, I just know your focus area. Nothing but Quidditch, Quidditch and Quidditch. Ah, and some children's fairy tales and Ravenclaw parties for you as well. Not something to earn you a pass in your O.W.L.s, don't you think?'

Harry squinted his eyes dangerously. He realised that she was just trying to bait him because she was angry, but it still hurt his pride.

'All right,' he said, rising his chin upwards snootily. 'I'll bet you a hundred galleons that I will get at least Exceeds Expectations in all my subjects without as much as a glance at your notes for the rest of the year,' he said, extending his hand for her to shake it and seal the deal.

Hermione snorted.

'What, you don't believe that I can do it? Then just shake my hand and you'll be a hundred galleons richer by the end of August,' said Harry mockingly. 'Or are you afraid that you will lose? How about ten galleons? That way, if I win, you won't lose a fortune. And if I lose, well, then I'll just lose a face and not much money. What do you say, Hermione?'

The girl looked at him, completely shocked, as if unable to believe that such an initiative might have ever come from him.

'Harry, I...' she began, clearly embarrassed. 'I didn't mean it like that. I know that you are not stupid. You can have my notes, really...'

'I don't want them,' the boy replied harshly. 'Do you take the bet?'

'What if you fail your exams because of your idiotic pride?' she asked in a carrying, angry whisper. 'What is your aunt going to say if you won't be admitted into any N.E.W.T. class because you haven't got sufficient results?'

'And here we are back again with you telling me that I can't do anything on my own,' said Harry, looking at his friend derisively. 'I'm not afraid of what my aunt may have to say. You shouldn't either, especially since she's _my _aunt, not yours. So, are you going to take the bet, or are you going to chicken out, pretending to care for my grades?'

'Pretending to...' Hermione hissed furiously, taking the bait. 'You're on, Harry Potter! Just don't come to me crying when you have no idea what to do later on because I will not budge on this one!'

'Fine,' said Harry, smirking and reclining in his armchair comfortably.

Ron, who had so far only been staring at the two of his friends with wide eyes, shook his head unbelievably.

'You're mental, mate,' he said, reaching out and patting Harry on the shoulder. He was about to offer the other boy the possibility to copy from his notes, which he would have had copied from Hermione, but it was then that Professor Slughorn chose to enter through the portrait hole, accompanied by the house captain, Mark Rawley, who had left to fetch the new housemaster the moment he had deposited the Gryffindors in the common room.

As all the pupils turned their heads towards the teacher, Slughorn smiled indulgently and looked tenderly at the children's faces.

'Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,' he began formally, his voice precisely as Harry had imagined. The sound was almost exactly like that of Mr Patterson. And the old-fashioned accent only helped to reinforce the image of Professor Slughorn as a schoolmaster rather than a mere teacher. Not to mention the fluttering black academic gown that was flung loosely around his shoulders, probably to add severity to his appearance. But Harry would not be fooled. If there was one thing that he had learnt from his time with Mr Patterson, it was definitely the knowledge that old-school teachers were really soft creatures if one only knew how to treat them appropriately. Not that he was an expert, not at all. Harry knew that he wasn't a model teacher's pet. He liked to argue and to _push it,_ he had often been lazy and rebellious. But he also realised what behaviour would have been considered correct. That knowledge could possibly prove invaluable when dealing with Professor Slughorn. After all, he wouldn't like to get on the bad side of the man. The mere thought of traditional school punishments, as described by his cousin Rupert and planted in him by the Dursleys, sent chills down his spine.

There was a more or less coherent wave of 'Good evening, Professor Slughorn'. Harry smirked, realising that none other teacher had ever managed to make Gryffindors respond that formally. There was something in Professor Slughorn that intimidated all his pupils, but rather than arising fear, the professor's presence commanded respect. And, Harry thought, that was a really difficult feat to accomplish. Snape had tried for years without any positive results, before finally giving up trying and settling on frightening his pupils into obedience. Immediately, Harry felt a twinge of admiration for his new teacher. The boy felt that, unlike Snape, Slughorn was a true _schoolmaster_, a man of great passion for both learning and teaching, as well as giving the absolute priority to making men out of children. In that respect, Slughorn was like Emmanuel, who was the greatest teacher Harry had ever had the privilege to learn from. For now, all he knew was that only time would tell whether he was right.

Meanwhile, Professor Slughorn continued with his welcoming speech.

'I'm really happy to be back here, at Hogwarts,' he said, looking around the room with tenderness. 'Must be something like forty years since I have last been here. Well, I wouldn't like to keep you up for too long tonight as it's already quite late and we have all got lessons in the morning but, as your new housemaster, I thought it my duty to at least come here and greet you. To remedy our lack of familiarity, I decided to set up tutorial groups. We will be meeting in small groups once a week. I will explain the purpose of the tutorial groups to everyone of you during your first session. At first, we'll use them to get to know each other better. Later, I'd like to go over different topics of interest to you during the tutorials and I do hope that you will enjoy them as much as I do, and as all my former pupils did.' Slughorn stopped for a moment to catch a breath. Everyone was looking at him curiously. 'All right,' he continued, 'I believe it's time for you to go to bed. The schedule of the tutorials will be on the notice board tomorrow morning. Have a good night!'

After Professor Slughorn left, there was a shuffle of shoes and chairs, and chattering voices as people left for their dormitories, herded away by the prefects, who had apparently taken it upon themselves to get in the good graces of their new housemaster.

As Hermione disappeared up the girls' staircase, hurrying some first-year girls to get to their dormitories, Harry stood with Ron at the bottom of the boys' staircase, while Weasley, as was his duty, was making sure that all the younger kids got to bed in time.

'I can't believe that you said that to Hermione,' said Ron, shaking his head, as they climbed upstairs after the last youngster. 'Are you really going to do that all on your own? Even the History of Magic O.W.L.?'

Harry scrunched his nose. He hadn't thought of that one. It was known throughout the house that all Gryffindor fifth-years copied their notes from Hermione and some younger classes even borrowed her notes from the previous years.

'Shit, I haven't really thought of that one,' he said, tut-tutting in annoyance. 'Well, I suppose I will have to find my own method. I bet there must be something more interesting on history than our damned textbook.'

Ron shook his head pitifully. 'Well, good luck, mate. You'll have loads of work to do.'

The next morning found Harry, Ron and Hermione standing in front of the notice board, waiting anxiously for Mark Rawley to finish pinning the newest information and move aside to let them see what was written on there. Finally, after a long while, which some people swore the house captain prolonged on purpose, Mark stopped to obstruct the view and people, as one, started to flood to the front of the poster. Those who were taller and had stronger elbows, obviously, got to the front first. Ron was among them, and Harry as well. Only Hermione refused to 'brutally shove the first-years', as she put it.

As it turned out, the meetings were supposed to be in single-sex groups. Harry almost smirked. Only an old Grove School schoolmaster could have come up with something like that. The boys from first and second years were required to come together, then the third- and fourth-years would be meeting the new head of house the next day. The fifth-years, the sixth-years and the seventh-years had all had their own meetings. The girls were required to come on the same days as their classmates, only at the later hour. It was also stated that the schedule of further meetings would be discussed independently with the group concerned.

'Well,' said Ron, still unsure what to think of Professor Slughorn's little innovation. 'Could be fun, right? We'll just have to see.'

Harry nodded as they left their spot. He really hoped that those tutorials wouldn't be just another boring school engagement; something to be endured and then forgotten. Professor Slughorn had made a really good impression on them all and the expectations would be sky-rocketing. If the man failed to deliver, he would probably be resented for the rest of his time at Hogwarts.

'Done?' Hermione asked them as they reached the spot where she had been standing. 'Good,' she continued after they had confirmed. 'So, when is our tutorial?'

'Our?' parroted Ron, relishing in the thought that he knew something that the girl did not.

'Yes, our,' repeated Hermione, slightly irritated. 'Oh, don't tell me the tutorials are not in our year groups! How are we supposed to learn anything if the groups are mixed?'

'They're not,' said Harry. 'They're not _mixed _at all. They are even single-sex.' He grinned seeing the girl's stunned face.

'Single-sex?' she repeated, outraged. 'But... But that's ridiculous!'

'Why?' asked Harry and Ron in unison. Neither of them had seen anything bad in the tutorials being divided by sexes. On the contrary, the idea appealed to them very much. Slughorn wanted to get to know everyone and for boys it was much easier to open if there were no giggly girls present in the room.

'Why? Why?!' Hermione seethed. 'Do you know what single-sex education leads to? My grandfather had been to an all-boys boarding school. He said he had never experienced anything so horrid before or after. Single-sex education leaves people scarred for life, unable to form relationships and to live with each other! That's why he refused to send my father to one of those dreadful institutions! They produce emotionally detached men who can't cope with their own feelings!'

The boys exchanged glances.

'But, Hermione,' began Ron, trying to calm the girl down.

'Don't "Hermione" me, Ronald Weasley!' she said harshly. 'I know what I'm talking about! Single-sex education is abhorrent! And this Slughorn comes here, from an all-boys snobbish school, and starts patronising! How can Professor Dumbledore let that happen?'

'Hermione, you're missing the point,' tried Harry, putting his hand on the girl's shoulder. 'It's not about being patronising! He wants us to feel comfortable in our natural environment.'

'And what's so bloody unnatural about girls and boys being together?' shouted Hermione, even more enraged now that she had not been listened to. 'I think this... this disgusting _apartheid_ is unnatural! What next? Maybe he'll start teaching Muggleborns and purebloods separately because we have different bloodlines?'

'Okay, Hermione, you're right,' said Ron, struggling to salvage the situation. He shot Harry a look that said "Shut up or she'll never stop".

Harry sighed and stopped arguing. He had no desire to quarrel with Hermione every time they were close, but the girl had lately become so sensitive that one couldn't say a word in front of her without her contesting the point made or throwing in her _invaluable _opinion. He couldn't understand it. For so many years they had got on famously, but for some months now Harry just couldn't understand his once excellent friend. He decided that he needed to talk to Sirius. The man had had much more experience with girls. He would surely know what had got into Hermione.

After breakfast, they had their first lesson of the day. Transfiguration, as Harry noted with a groan. Sitting in his usual place in the Transfiguration classroom, the boy flicked the pages of his textbook uninterestingly. Ron, who sat beside Harry, amused himself by picking at a piece of chalk that lay in front of him on the desk, whereas Hermione, sitting on the other side of Ron, had her eyes firmly fixed on the back door of the classroom, waiting for Umbridge to come.

'Bet she's as bad here as she was in Defence,' said Ron, sighing wistfully when he reminisced Professor McGonagall who, even though strict and demanding, at least knew what she was doing.

'Bet she's even worse,' muttered Harry.

'You're on, mate.' Ron chuckled, looking at Harry impishly.

'Good morning, class!' the girly voice of Professor Umbridge carried from the main door.

'Good morning,' they all grumbled, leaving no doubt as to what they thought about the changes in the staff.

Umbridge squinted dangerously. 'Very well,' she said, never losing the zeal in her voice. 'Wands out. We'll see what you're capable of.'

The pupils perked up immediately, quite astonished. That must have been the first time they had heard that command from Umbridge since she had started to teach.

'First, I want you to change these goblets,' here she waved her wand and a number of copper goblets left a cupboard that stood by the wall, and flew over to lay one in front of each pupil, 'into a living animal of choice. Of course, an animal that will not be hazardous. We wouldn't like any accidents at the beginning of the term. Is that clear?'

After they have all muttered their consent, Umbridge sat herself comfortably behind her new desk and began to scrutinise the work of the pupils from afar.

Harry stared at his goblet. They had done transfiguration of living creatures into objects but not the other way round. He had no idea how to proceed. All he knew was that the task Umbridge had given them was certainly on the O.W.L.s syllabus as it allowed the examiner to check almost every ability of the examined person in the field of Transfiguration. One had to know how to do colour, density, change of one material into another, how to build the animal body so that it would work and the poor beast didn't die two seconds into its new life, and many others. The problem remained, however, that even though Harry knew all the stages of the transfiguration, he had no idea how to combine them to get the desired effect.

He gazed discreetly around the classroom. Most of his classmates seemed to have no idea how to proceed. Some of them, like Hermione for instance, were waving their wands over the goblets, as if taking measurements or trying to establish how best to attempt the spell, others just stared, probably hoping that Umbridge wouldn't notice their struggle with the assignment.

'I see,' said Umbridge finally, realising that no one really knew what to do. 'I want you to know that changing an inanimate object into a living creature and changing a living creature into an inanimate object is one of the basic tasks of the O.W.L. Transfiguration exam. We will work on that. Open your books on page fifty eight and read the passage describing how the transfiguration should proceed. Next, I want you to try to change your goblets once again. Those who won't manage by the end of the lesson will be required to practise outside the classroom. I will assign detentions to those who can't manage the transfiguration by this time next week.'

Having said that, Umbridge returned to her seat, leaving the class to cope with the task and with the prospect of a nasty punishment hanging above their heads if they failed to meet the standards.

Forty minutes later, Harry was leaving the Transfiguration classroom in a gloomy mood. As one hundred per cent of his classmates, he would have to practise his transfiguration. Even Hermione did not manage to change her goblet entirely, which left her with a copper guinea pig with some fur on its belly.

Harry, on the other hand, got a soft goblet covered with scales. Apparently, his animal would have been a snake had he finished the transfiguration. The boy suspected his ability to speak Parseltongue was the reason why he kept getting a snake and not any other animal.

As Umbridge had explained, in a surprising depth, the reason why his and Hermione's results were so different was because they had both attempted to do magic in a different way. She refused to delve deeper into the theory of magic, but she said that he concentrated more on each feature that constituted the snake, and that was why he actually got the snake, but it was in the shape of a goblet. His snake had all of its internal organs, muscles and skin as it should have but it did not have the right shape. Whereas Hermione had concentrated on the guinea pig as a whole. She imagined a guinea pig and tried to change the copper goblet into it, which resulted in her getting the guinea pig, with all its organs, but all of it was made of copper. Umbridge didn't actually say which one of them had done better, but Harry had a feeling that his snake-goblet thing was at the more advanced stage of transfiguration because at least it was alive, albeit for a very short period of time. Hermione had just managed to make a copper figurine, a very real figurine, but a figurine nonetheless.

The day had passed by quickly and pleasantly, even though Harry had managed to lose ten points in Defence.

'That was so bloody unfair!' whined Ron as they left the Defence classroom after their last lesson of the day. 'How could he have expected you to know that?'

'It's Snape, Ron, he doesn't do fair,' replied Harry with a sigh, trying to sound calm even though the blood inside of him was boiling. How could the bastard ask him to perform a spell wordlessly? Harry knew that it was a N.E.W.T.-level material. He shouldn't be required to know that and he certainly shouldn't have lost any points for not knowing how to cast spells without saying the incantations aloud. And the gall of that man, when he said that anyone who wanted extra marks would have to perform five different non-verbal spells by the end of the term!

'I know but that was an outright discrimination. Those spells are not on the curriculum until the sixth year. Hey, maybe you could tell Slughorn and see if he can do anything about it? Maybe he would even give us the points back?'

Harry snorted. That would really go down well. He could just about imagine it. 'Hello, professor, you know, Professor Snape took points from us. But it was unfair, so could you maybe give them back?' No, definitely not something he could say.

'Let's go to supper,' said the boy, his pace quickening. 'I need to eat something.'

Agreeably, Ron followed his friend to the Great Hall, Snape's name forgotten for the time being. They had a much more important thing to talk about: the impending Potions lesson with their new teacher, scheduled for the next morning.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello! Thank you for all your likes and reviews! I love, love, love reading them. Now, on to chapter 4...**

Chapter 4 – The Master of Potions

The soft beams of the early morning sunshine fell through the stained-glass windows into the boys' dormitory in the Gryffindor Tower as Harry Potter woke up with a groan. Stealing a glance at his watch that lay on the bedside table, the boy burrowed his head beneath the duvet. It was barely six in the morning. He still had at least an hour before he would have to get up. Trying to relax and get back to sleep, Harry didn't even notice when the desired state started to drift farther and farther away. All he knew was that ten minutes later he had had enough of lying in bed, so he kicked off his covers all the way to the bottom of his bed and yanked the crimson curtains open.

Sighing, the boy ruffled his already messy hair with his hands and stood up, set on finding all the parts of his uniform that had, as usual, been scattered around the room. When he had that taken care of, Harry grabbed his wand on the way to the showers. It was the time to try the water-heating spell he managed to convince Aunt Elizabeth to share with him. Which she did, finally, after a fit of completely undignified laughter which had won over her normally serious features after Harry had told her that each morning the boy that entered the showers first had to wash himself with cold water.

As usual, Harry deposited his clothes on a small wooden stool and stepped inside the shower cubicle. He tapped his wand on the shower head three times and said: '_Fervero!'_ Satisfied that he wouldn't have to endure cold showers anymore, Harry put his wand on the stool on which he had previously placed his uniform and turned the taps on.

'Argh!' he cried and immediately jumped back as the boiling hot water hit his arm. Observing the steaming shower with both rage and a fair dose of incredulity, the boy cast a cooling spell on his arm. As he noticed there was an angry red burn on it and the skin was very sensitive to the touch which he had realised, hissing, having scratched the mark to relieve the stinging. 'Oh, fab,' he muttered, thinking how on earth was he supposed to shower now. '_Finite!_' he said, and the steaming water stopped, replaced by the cold water instead. 'Hmm...' Harry wondered, looking at the shower intently. He smirked when an ingenious idea blossomed in his mind.

Keeping his arms as far away from the stream of water as possible, Harry tapped his wand only on the part of the tap that carried hot water. '_Fervero!_' he said and smiled when the water running from the shower above him turned lukewarm. 'Finally,' he whispered victoriously and stepped under the stream of water without any further reservations. He hissed when his arm began to sting even more. 'Damn it!' the boy said, but continued with his ablutions.

Later that morning, when he had left the bathroom, prepared for his morning lessons and walked down to the common room to wait for his friends to come down and accompany him to breakfast, Harry sat on the sofa in front of the fireplace, reading the final chapter of the first tome of the **Encyclopaedia of the British Magical History**, annoyed with the fact that he had no idea how to sneak out to practise his singing. He was afraid that he would be caught if he tried to use one of the abandoned classrooms; the common room was definitely out of the question, and the additional fact that his singing always attracted quite a strong smell of orange blossoms made the dilemma all the more serious.

Sighing, the boy scratched his burned arm. It still stung, especially as it kept being rubbed at by the material of his shirt which, even if quite soft, was rather irritating when touching the burn. He reckoned he would have to write to Aunt Elizabeth and ask for her advice. Maybe she would be able to persuade the Headmaster to allow him to have Latin tuition, as she had once suggested, administered by a private tutor in one of the spare classrooms. Then he would just have to invite Mr Patterson who would then teach him how to sing in Latin and they would be able to kill two birds with one stone.

'Harry!' said an enthusiastic voice from behind him. The boy turned his head only to see Hermione emerging from the staircase that led to the girls' dormitory. 'What are you doing up so early? And what is it that you're reading?'

Remembering the last time he had found himself in an almost identical situation, Harry did not respond immediately. He took his time, turning one page, then another, as if he was busy looking for something specific. Finally, he looked Hermione straight in the face and said, 'It's a book I got for Christmas. And don't worry, it's legal this time.' The last part came out more like a snarl. He didn't really want to say it. The last thing he needed so early in the morning was an aggravated Hermione, but it just slipped out.

'Must we fight all the time?' asked Hermione tiredly, plonking herself onto the seat in front of Harry and dropping her bag at her feet.

'Sorry,' the boy muttered, completely unapologetically, pretty sure that it was her that owed him an apology. Hermione frowned but didn't say anything. After all, it was her initiative not to fight.

'Shall we go to breakfast?' she asked instead, rising to her feet. 'It's about time and the rest are probably going to get down soon too.'

Harry nodded and stuffed his book in his school bag. Then he stretched and inhaled deeply, prolonging the time it would normally take him to get up.

'Harry...' said Hermione impatiently.

'All right, I'm coming,' he said, hoisting himself up to his feet and rolling his eyes on the way. 'Wonder what's for breakfast today,' he mused as they walked down the halls.

'Probably the same as every other day,' said Hermione, looking at the boy oddly. 'Are you all right, Harry?' she asked worriedly. 'What was that book you were reading?' she queried as an afterthought, as if she had just remembered that it was something that had interested her before she was thrown off the previous track of thought.

'It's **Encyclopaedia of the British Magical History**,' replied Harry, pulling the volume out of his bag and handing it to Hermione. The girl snatched it hungrily, as always when she was presented with a book, and flicked through it pages slowly, reading the titles of the chapters. She then flipped back to the front of the book and stared at the dedication for a moment.

'The King's Men?' she said, frowning. 'What's that?'

'What?' asked Harry, surprised. He failed to notice any mention of the group while he had been reading the book. 'Where?'

'Right here.' Hermione pointed to the caption under a picture of six gentlemen of the era of the Norman Conquest. '_For the King's Men, that when they return, may they find the world still worthy of their grace,_' she read aloud, clearly puzzled.

Harry took the book from the girl's hands and stared at the inscription: The King's Men, the six noblemen in service of King William the Conqueror.

The boy flipped to the front page where he expected to find the name of the author of the book, but all that was there was 'by Allara' and an illegible signature. Frowning, Harry decided to talk to Gwen. Surely, she would have known more about the book she had given him.

Harry wanted to stop the girl during breakfast but as he wasn't sure if she would appreciate being seen talking with him, he decided to send her an owl. Having still at least ten minutes before the start of his morning lessons, double Potions, the boy ran to the owlery, almost tripping over the steps in the hurry.

_Dear Gwen, _he wrote and scratched his chin thoughtfully with the tip of his quill.

'Fuck,' he said, realising that the quill had been dipped in ink and his chin would now be black.

_I've got a few questions about the books you gave me for Christmas. Could we meet, please?_

_All the best,_

_Harry_

Having finished the letter, Harry read it over three times. He didn't particularly like the blunt sound of it, but as it was the moment the bell rang he had little choice but to send it quickly with a school owl, as his own bird had been nowhere in sight.

The boy cursed himself as he ran down the owlery steps. He would be late for his first Potions lesson. _Great_, he thought sarcastically. _No better way to make a good first impression. _

Panting and struggling to catch his breath, Harry arrived at the Potions classroom door and entered. His face was flushed from the long run and his palm pressed firmly to his chest, trying to calm his pounding heart.

'Mr Potter, I presume?' Slughorn's frosty voice reached him from the front of the classroom. Harry nodded and took the last remaining seat. 'I do not appreciate tardiness in my pupils, Mr Potter. That will be ten points from Gryffindor. Be late again and it will be a detention.'

'Sorry, sir,' said Harry, flushing even more when he realised that the whole class was staring at him. He could swear that he heard Slughorn mutter 'I'm glad you are.'

'As I was saying, today's class will serve me to evaluate your aptitude for my subject,' said Professor Slughorn, walking over to the table that was set up in the front of the classroom. There were four cauldrons standing on it, all of them full of potions Harry had never seen before. 'What I want you to do is to come forward and take a close look at the poisons I have brewed. I want you to recognise them, write down your answers on a piece of parchment and put it on my desk. I'll mark the papers and return them to you by the end of the lesson. You have five minutes for the assignment.'

That said, the professor returned to his desk, where he plonked himself comfortably on the chair and observed the actions of his pupils who had gathered around the table in order to better see the poisons.

It did not surprise anyone that Hermione had her answers down in less than two minutes. No one was particularly shocked that all of the more intelligent Slytherins had turned in their parchments in roughly three minutes. What shocked Harry, however, was the fact that Ron had his answers written down before the time was up. Feeling a pang of stress, the boy felt his body heat up. It was embarrassing and he felt really stupid. Did they all actually know what was in those cauldrons or were they bluffing?

Seeing that he had only had one minute left, Harry scribbled four poisons that had first come to his mind and put his parchment on Slughorn's desk. With embarrassment, he noted that he was the last one to do so.

'Excellent,' said the professor heartily. 'I do hope that you have all done your best. Now, off to the second part. I want you to use the Robbage Formula to brew the antidote that will work for all the potions on the table. As you have all identified the concoctions, you realise what all of them have in common. You have time until fifteen minutes before the end of the second lesson. Now, begin.' That said, Slughorn returned to his desk, put on his horn-rimmed glasses and set to work on marking their little quizzes, completely relaxed, not bothering to even watch his pupils brew.

Harry, on the other hand, stared helplessly at the cauldron set up in front of him. What on earth was the Robbage Formula? Had they even covered that in Potions with Snape? They must have, considering that everyone had already started to work on their antidote. But he didn't even know what the poisons were!

_Should have listened to bloody Snape, _he thought bitterly, sitting back and staring at a dent in his desk. Millicent Buldstrode, who sat next to him, looked at him pitifully but did not extend a helping hand. She was a Slytherin, after all. She wouldn't be seen helping Harry Potter, of all people. A bloody poster boy for Gryffindor. If Harry didn't study, he would fail, and that was it.

So Harry just sat there, once in a while tapping his cauldron with one of the ladles to relieve boredom. He also kept throwing surreptitious glances at Professor Slughorn to make sure that the man didn't see him idle, but that plan didn't work. The man had caught his gaze more than once and each time his lips pursed with disapproval.

Harry sighed, thinking that it didn't really matter who taught Potions. It was an awful subject, no matter what, and he would never be a Potions genius. The thought of the bet with Hermione entered his mind.

_Exceeds Expectations in Potions... Yeah, right... A Troll, more likely_, Harry thought, looking around the classroom. Everyone was working hard on their antidote. The boy met Hermione's angry glance, but then she just shook her head and looked back into her cauldron.

'Ten minutes left!' announced Slughorn, sweeping the pupils with his penetrating gaze.

Harry began thinking furiously. What should he tell the man when he asked about his antidote? The professor observed him throughout the lesson like a hawk. He knew Harry failed to even attempt the potion.

_Great, it will be like with Snape all over again_, the boy thought. _Potter, our new celebrity, _Harry mocked inside his mind. _Clearly fame isn't everything... _he carried on, his mood worsening. _What the hell... We have never even done anything like Robbage Formula... Why not start asking questions about Wolfsbane? _

_Wolfsbane_... The plant triggered a long-forgotten memory in Harry's brain.

_What's the difference, Potter, between monkshood and Wolfsbane? _That was Snape's question for him during Harry's first Potions lesson. But he also said something else; something very significant...

'Time's up!' Slughorn shouted over the all-engulfing mists emanating from the cauldrons. Harry smirked when Slughorn began walking around the classroom, marking the antidotes. Apparently, no one had managed an antidote that would have been fully effective if one swallowed the poisons that were laid out on the table. Even Hermione, despite all her knowledge, had apparently put too much acorns for the Muscle-Melting Draught.

Harry perked up hearing the name. It was one of those he had written down. He wondered whether he'd been lucky enough to allocate it with the right number.

'Mr Potter? May I see what you have been sweating over?' asked Slughorn, causing some of the other pupils to snort. Harry could have sworn that the professor left him to be the last one on purpose.

'Just a moment, sir,' said Harry, praying to all the deities he had ever known that there was a _bezoar_ in the ingredients cupboard. 'Victory!' he whispered happily, snatching the dry little stone from one of the shelves. He walked back to his seat, unnerved by everyone staring at him expectantly.

'This will work just fine, sir,' said Harry, extending his arm so that everyone could see the bezoar resting on his palm.

For a moment, Slughorn just stared at Harry, unsure whether to laugh or lash out at the boy for his sheer cheek. In the end, he'd chosen the former, making all the pupils stare in bewilderment.

Still chuckling, the professor picked up the little stone. 'Bezoar,' he said and scratched his chin. 'It would indeed work for every poison present in the classroom. However, there are poisons the bezoar cannot counter.'

Slughorn's gaze pierced Harry to the bone. The boy swallowed heavily. He was sure that the professor had seen through his ill-conceived plan; the question was, would there be consequences?

His answer came when Slughorn turned back to face the class. 'Yes, Mr Potter's observation is very astute. The bezoar is a very powerful substance, but also a rare one as it requires immediate preservation to retain its magical properties. Few actually know how to create the solutions needed for its preservation and therefore the stone is quickly rendered ineffective. Had Mr Potter ingested any of those potions and did not manage to find a bezoar, the knowledge of how to use Robbage Formula would help him immensely, especially since all those poisons are slow-working ones and there would be more than enough time for him to brew an antidote.'

Later, having left the Potions classroom in the company of Ron and Hermione, Harry couldn't believe his luck. He might have got a zero for the quiz, because, as Slughorn said, 'It was not a guessing game', but he had received full marks for the second assignment for 'the immense creativity and the ability to think', which the professor announced to be 'one of the most important things that were to learn at school'.

Hermione, however, was not amused. 'That was cheating, Harry,' she said angrily. 'Snape would never have fallen for that. You had no idea what to do. You just came up with it at the last moment. You would have failed if Snape was still teaching Potions, and you well know it!'

But Harry was in too good a mood to bother. 'Of course I know that,' replied the boy, looking at Hermione as if she had just said something particularly daft. 'Do you remember Snape ever giving me a good grade? Besides, you only care because I did better than you.'

'That's not true!' cried Hermione, truly horrified that he would ever think about her along those lines. 'I want you to succeed, Harry! But you need to be honest with yourself. If you are told at your O.W.L. exam to use Robbage Formula they will not give you any marks for producing a bezoar. It's all good and well to know that the stone will counter most poisons, but it's not good to be ignorant of the solution that can't possibly fail in any circumstance, whereas bezoar can only do so much!'

Harry stared at Hermione for a moment. She was right. Robbage Formula, as Slughorn said at the end of the lesson, looking straight at him, was one of the basic requirements for O.W.L. Potions exam. If he didn't know how to use it, or at least explain it if it happened to show up in the theoretical part of the examination, he would fail, and, which was more important, all his bets would go down the drain, and his pride with them. And, however much Harry hated Potions, it was very important to him to succeed and show Hermione that he was not as stupid as she thought him to be.

'You're right, Hermione,' the boy said with defeat after a moment of silence. 'But you don't have to be so damn smug about it!' he snapped, seeing that Hermione's face was changing from the one of worry to the one of satisfaction.

'I'm just worried, Harry,' said Hermione, completely unapologetically. 'Imagine what your aunt will say if you fail your O.W.L.s!'

The boy was sure that saying that Lady Elizabeth would be dissatisfied would be an understatement of the century, but he had no intention of broadcasting that thought.

'Well, it's nothing you have to be worried about,' he said, gritting his teeth. 'Let's go outside,' he proposed, leading his friends towards the entrance hall.

'But it's freezing outside!' whined Ron. 'And we haven't got our coats!'

Harry sighed. 'All right... Let's go to the common room then. There's still something like twenty minutes before Charms.'

Time, as always, had no mercy at Hogwarts School. The days were filled with lessons and homework. In their free time, the pupils engaged in many after-school clubs that Hogwarts had on offer or played sports, despite the fact that it was freezing cold in the school playing fields at that time of the year.

As Harry had found out, one of the most popular wizarding winter sports was broomstick polo, a strange game that governed itself by the very same rules that its Muggle equivalent, the only difference being the fact that it employed the power of brooms instead of the muscles of horses. The boy had never played polo in the Muggle world, so he wasn't quite certain whether the original was just as dangerous as its magical derivative, but the threat only made it more enjoyable in Harry's mind. The thrill he felt each time he was practically mauled by the players on the opposite team was hard to explain, but there was no need to explain it. The feeling of adrenaline rushing through his veins was so enticing that he could never say no. It was as in the old song:

_How we rejoiced as we struggled and panted,_

_Hardly believable forty years on._

'Harry!' the boy heard a soft voice calling him as he exited the playing fields, drenched in sweat and red in the face, oblivious to the chill of the day.

'Gwen!' he acknowledged happily. 'How are things?'

'Fine, thanks,' she replied, smiling. 'You wanted to talk to me, right?' she asked, looking at him pointedly.

'Ah, yes. Well, I wanted to ask you who wrote those books you gave me,' said Harry, suddenly feeling very tired. Must have been all the loss of energy during the game. 'All it says is "by Allara".'

'Oh...' Gwen seemed surprised. 'Well, "Allara" is the nickname of Septimus Leahry, one of our most famous historians. He died in nineteen sixty-eight. But he was brilliant. Have you finished the books?'

'I've finished the first volume,' said Harry, surprised that "Allara" was a man. The nickname sounded quite feminine. 'Why did he use the nickname if everyone knew his name?'

Gwen squirmed uncomfortably. 'That's the thing,' she said in a whisper. 'No one knows who Allara really was. He was my grandmother's older brother. He's the family legend. That's why I know. And I hope I can trust you to keep that information to yourself?'

Harry nodded. 'Okay, but why did he dedicate the books to the King's Men?' he asked, confused. 'Because that's what really made me interested in him so much.'

'He firmly believed that the legend's true,' said Gwen. 'And he had many a reason to believe it is. For one, he knew people with the King's Men's powers. The Dark Lord was the Parselmouth of the story, Lady Yekaterina Lopukhina was the Sono Witch, Nicholas Flamel was the Alchemist, Lady Barbara Selwyn was the Metamorphmagus, and he was the Mind Reader, as he was very well-versed in the art of Occlumency and Legilimency.'

'At least two of them were my relatives,' said Harry, in awe with the girl's knowledge. 'Lady Yekaterina was my grandmother and Lady Selwyn was my aunt's mother,' he explained, needlessly, as Gwen nodded, having already known as much.

'Look, if you want to know more about the King's Men, try to read **Magical Legends**,' said the girl, indicating that she was in a hurry. 'They should have it in the library. Better not to ask the teachers though. It's quite a controversial topic. But I think that Slughorn would be willing to tell you more. He's one of _the breed_, after all.'

Harry nodded and thanked Gwen for her time. He needed to eat some supper quickly and to shower before he would go to the tutorial with Slughorn.

Whatever Harry expected the tutorial to be, it wasn't it. He smirked, thinking how disappointed would Hermione be when she left after the girls' time with Professor Slughorn later that day.

First of all, the professor immediately pointed out that the tutorials would not be teaching sessions. He would not be the one to provide topics for discussion, as he fully expected them to be capable of thinking about the matters that they wanted to talk about. What Slughorn wanted was to develop independent thinking skills. He wanted them to learn to _talk_, without any pressures, without censoring, but still in a civilised manner, able to get their point across without insulting one another.

Harry knew that Hermione thought the tutorials would involve additional studying, and he also realised that she was very much looking forward to that. Thankfully, she was wrong, as he had already had troubles keeping up with the load of homework the teachers were showering them with.

When Harry, Ron, Seamus, Neville and Dean entered Professor Slughorn's office, he invited them to sit on the sofa and asked them whether they wished to have a drink. They all shyly asked for tea and, having been served, sipped the pale liquid, staring into their cups.

'Ehm,' Slughorn grunted, reminding them of his presence. 'I'm really glad to be able to continue with the tutorials,' he said, adding a spoonful of sugar to his tea. 'I have run these sessions when I was a housemaster here before and I dare say they were one of my greatest successes. I continued with the tutorials at Grove School, but they have not been a novelty there. I'm glad that Headmaster Dumbledore agreed for me to provide my house with the more personalised pastoral care, so common in our best schools, yet regretfully so much neglected here, at Hogwarts.' Slughorn stopped and took a sip of his tea.

'Which house you were the head of, professor?' asked, surprisingly, Neville. To Harry's bafflement, the boy did not look intimidated. It was as if Professor Slughorn was his old mate with whom he had felt utterly at ease.

Slughorn chuckled. 'Slytherin,' he said, causing Ron to choke on his tea. The boy started coughing, all red from embarrassment when the tea that had previously gone down the wrong pipe came out of his nose with a flush.

'So-rry,' Ron choked out amid the wallops to the back he was receiving from Seamus, who was clearly enjoying himself immensely.

'It's quite all right, my boy,' said Slughorn, looking at Ron with concern. 'Are you well?'

'Y-es!' he said, getting even redder than before. 'It's just... it's quite a shock... Have you really been the Head of Slytherin before?'

'Yes, I have. I have also been the head of...' Slughorn was about to tell them about his experiences at Grove School, but he didn't get to finish his sentence.

'Bugger off, Seamus!' shouted Ron, punching Seamus, who kept giving hard wallops to his back. Seamus only chuckled, irritating Ron even more.

'Boys, calm down,' said Slughorn good-naturedly, putting his cup back down onto the table. 'Now, is there anything in particular you would like to talk about?' the man asked, looking expectantly at the boys in front of him. 'I'll have you know that you will be responsible for finding your own topics of discussion. I'm here only to listen to your points of view and to stimulate you to come to an all-rounded view of the subject. Well?'

'Dark magic!' said Seamus excitedly. 'Let's talk about Dark magic!'

'Oh, yeah, let's!' shouted Ron sarcastically, apparently still angry for the punches. 'What's there to talk about, Seamus? It's evil, it's illegal. Nothing more about it!'

'Yes, but why it is illegal?' Seamus pressed on. 'What exactly is so bad about it? Why is the magic bad?'

'Because it is!' cried Ron, unwilling to listen to any arguments.

'Ron, I know Dark magic is bad. I just wanted to discuss the finer points of the legislature and ethics,' said Seamus, a bit surprised by Ron's overly emotional response.

Weasley, still seething, was about to say something nasty, but Harry cut in.

'Okay, I think what we should be talking about is the process of introduction of Muggleborn wizards and witches into our society,' he said, throwing a glance at Professor Slughorn. The twinkle in the man's eye told him immediately that he approved. 'Why there isn't any formal introduction, why no one teaches Muggleborns the wizarding ways, why there are no lessons in wizarding traditions and history? And before you tell me that we've got the History of Magic, think again. All Binns teaches us are the goblin rebellions, or other crap. It's completely useless. During the last month I have found out more about the wizarding history and traditions than ever before. But Muggleborns are not lucky enough to have magical relatives who would take them in and introduce them to the magical world. I, for one, am still reeling to have never known about the King's Men. I still don't know much, but now at least I know that there was such a thing and that it is one of the most famous British legends.'

There. He had done it. Indirectly, he had asked the question that he had been meaning to ask ever since he had heard the cut-short tale of the King's Men. Now, all he needed was to wait for Slughorn to take the bait. Or not.

Unfortunately, it was Dean, the only true Muggleborn boy in his year, who decided to reply.

'Well, I can say that I would have certainly used some sort of introduction to the wizarding world when I first came here,' he said thoughtfully. 'But now I'm just so used to it that I don't even bother with the differences in dress and such.'

'But you don't dress like a wizard,' Harry quipped. 'You don't like Quidditch, you prefer football. And you still stare at people when we go to Hogsmeade. Remember that witch in a bright green robe with a red badge?'

'But what does it matter?' asked Dean, shrugging his shoulders. 'The Muggle world isn't that much different from the wizarding world, is it?'

Dean's words, although seemingly innocent and without any deeper meaning, froze Harry to the bone. He stared at the other boy, for the first time really comprehending what the whole fight between purebloods and those who called themselves Light wizards was about. At the beginning, the purebloods wanted nothing more than for Muggleborns to assimilate. They wanted the newcomers to adapt to their culture and values, and they wanted to protect the things they held most dear from dilution and decay. But as the time passed, and Muggleborns refused to comply, deeming their culture equally important to them, the purebloods began to lose patience. They wanted to live in peace, but they also wanted the old habits and values preserved for the posterity. Bending and breaking of the law and the destruction of the centuries-old traditions to accommodate the influx of Muggleborns was the final straw for the frustrated wizards and witches. One day, they had risen up in a gust of great passion and, as way back in history the wind had been sown, the society was now reaping the whirlwind.

Harry had thought about the whole thing many times before. He had listened to Hermione talking about her disdain for anything short of egalitarian. He had even agreed that both cultures had their immense merits and that both sides of the argument had their just causes to fight for. However, hearing it from Hermione who was almost like family to him, and whom he therefore could simply treat with the indulgence she deserved, was completely different than hearing it from Dean Thomas, a mediocre wizard without any special gift for magic. For some reason, Harry took Dean's remark very personally. He felt as though the boy's dismissal of the magical culture was a punch straight in the face.

But before Harry had a chance to get really angry, Neville stepped in.

'Well, it does matter,' he said, again speaking with the confidence that almost didn't suit him. 'For one, you will never be fully accepted in the wizarding society if you will not at least try to assimilate. You will remain an outsider forever. Harry's right, I think. There should be a course of some sorts. Otherwise, we will continue to see rebellious Muggleborn teenagers using the black nail varnish, trying to look all grown up, but in the eyes of someone who was born and bred as a wizard, just making a joke of themselves.'

Harry tilted his head curiously. 'Really? What does black nail varnish mean in the wizarding world?'

He noticed Ron, Neville and Seamus look aside, suddenly rather shy about something.

Slughorn chuckled. 'Historically, it was the varnish of choice for prostitutes that used to frequent the establishments in Knockturn Alley,' the man explained kindly, making Harry embarrassed for having asked. It was one thing to talk about sex with one's mates in the dormitory after the lights-out, but it was something completely different to discuss prostitutes with one's teacher.

But Slughorn was by no means finished. 'At the beginning, there had been _houses of debauchery _in Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley, but as the society grew more and more conservative, the establishments were outlawed and prostitution was banned. Then those who still wanted to continue with this lifestyle chose to paint their fingernails black. It was the sign of a prostitute. And even though it no longer is, the nail varnish is still very strongly associated with the... _profession_.'

Slughorn looked at his pupils who had, ironically, taken to observing their own fingernails. 'Well, but we have wandered off-track. What do you think would improve the quality of the introduction of Muggleborns into our society?' the professor asked, causing the boys to breathe long sighs of relief.

'Well, I don't think much can be done,' said Neville, his confidence still astounding to all those who knew him. 'We would have to change the Muggleborns' attitude and that can't really be done without their co-operation.'

'But why would Muggleborns want that?' asked Dean, still blissfully unaware how wrong his opinions sounded to Harry's ears. 'After all, they _are _a part of both worlds. Muggles and wizards live side by side. I understand that it could be potentially problematic to reveal the magical world to Muggles, but the least wizards can do is to accept that Muggleborns and Muggles are around and stop being snooty about it.'

'Snooty?' hissed Harry angrily. 'Have you ever seen a Muggleborn lift a finger to find out more about the magical world? There are Muggle Studies at Hogwarts. Why don't we have Wizard Studies? People like Ron have no trouble finding out what a plug and a socket are for, but Muggleborns remain forever ignorant about the things like the old legends and children's stories!'

'What do I bloody care about children's stories? I'm too old for that!' snapped Dean. 'Just because your Muggles are crap doesn't mean that all of them are!'

'I didn't say they were!' Harry retorted. He wanted to say more, he wanted to thrash the idiot verbally, but Professor Slughorn rushed in to salvage the situation.

'Boys! We are here to have a civilised discussion! Please, stop shouting. I don't want to be forced to assign detentions during the tutorials,' he said sternly.

'Sorry, sir,' Dean and Harry muttered in unison.

'Anyway,' said Ron, 'I don't see why we are even having that discussion. It's stupid. Everyone knows there are Muggleborns among us, those who are not idiots or upper-class twats know that there is nothing wrong with them. End of the problem. What's so interesting about it?'

As Dean nodded vigorously, Seamus seemed to be looking forward with indifference and Harry and Neville stared at Ron with disdain, professor Slughorn chuckled, finishing his tea.

'Yes, as we can see every one of you has a different opinion on the topic. I like it. I like diversity. And I like the fact that you have so keenly participated in the discussion. I'm afraid that we'll have to leave it at that for today. As I had to rearrange the schedule of the tutorials a bit, your next session will be on Monday, straight after supper. For now, thank you very much, boys, and goodnight!'

As they all started to put away their empty cups, Slughorn said, 'Stay back, Mr Potter. We need to have a little chat.'

With a sinking feeling that Slughorn was going to ask him about the morning Potions lesson, Harry remained in his seat as the others scurried away. Finally, when the door closed after Neville, who was the last to leave, Slughorn looked at Harry seriously and asked, 'Tell me, Mr Potter, what does the Robbage Formula say?'

Flushing with embarrassment, Harry shook his head. 'I don't know, sir.'

'Ah,' said Slughorn emphatically. Of course, it was clear that he did not expect any other answer. 'Then since you don't know it, and I require that all my pupils do know it, we may have arrived at a bit of an impasse. Tell me, then, how come there was not a single person in your class that didn't know it, yet you show up, completely ignorant of that basic tool?'

'I don't know, sir,' replied Harry quietly. He felt even worse than when he was quizzed by professor Snape. Snape was simply spiteful. He hated Harry and he had never bothered to hide the fact. He ridiculed Harry on every possible occasion. It was no wonder then that the boy felt nothing but hatred towards his old Potions Master and refused to learn from him.

But Slughorn had never insulted him. The man was fair, passionate and more than willing to share his knowledge with the yet ignorant young people of whom he was in charge. Harry respected him, even though he had only met the professor on three occasions so far. But by far the most important thing determining his great reverence towards the teacher was happening just at the moment he stood there, staring at his shoes, feeling utterly embarrassed for having completely neglected his studying. It was the fact that Slughorn had chosen to talk to him, alone, instead of ridiculing him in front of the entire class. He didn't know why it was so important to him. Standing there, in front of the stern-looking professor, felt more terrifying than taking on Snape, his sarcastic and rude remarks, and his giggling classmates combined.

'Very well, Harry,' said Slughorn, raking his fingers through his thinning grey hair. 'You may go back to your common room. But, before you go, I just want you to know that however much you dislike the person that teaches a subject, doesn't change the fact that it could potentially be your best subject. After all, you wouldn't fail Defence now that Professor Snape teaches it, would you?'

Harry nodded, feeling the huge tight knot relaxing in his stomach. Against all odds, he left Slughorn's office with a smile on his face, just when the girls began to arrive. He walked to the Gryffindor Common Room in a daze. There was one thing he knew for sure: he needed to win the bet and for that he needed an Exceeds Expectations in Potions, which would surely be the hardest one to achieve.


	5. Chapter 5

Hello! Another chapter for you:) Just so you know, the first 9 chapters have already been written and are now waiting to be posted, which is why I'm updating daily. After that, you will have to wait longer for updates, but hopefully not too long.

That said, thank you for all the wonderful reviews and likes. Have a nice day/night, wherever you may be in the world!

Chapter 5 – Of Illicit Excursions, Rupert, and Festivities

When Lady Elizabeth had resolutely set her mind to something, there was nothing in the whole world that could possibly deter her from accomplishing her goal. Be it snow, hail, chill, or wind – they were merely elements of nature to her rational mind, not something of what to take heed. Albus Dumbledore? He was nothing more than a detestable creature, albeit inconveniently well-connected and powerful. However, despite his immeasurable means to make other people's existences miserable, Lady Elizabeth Selwyn refused to be cowed. She had been very enthusiastic about the prospect of the Mid-Winter Choral Festival that was held annually in the village of which her family had been the rightful owner for more than eight centuries. What rendered her enthusiasm all the greater, however, was her certainty that, given the right incentive, her nephew was sure to agree to contribute to the overall attractiveness of the festivities by taking on the role of the leading soloist. Of course, that would require him to receive a great deal of regular practice, especially since the Festival was due to take off in barely three weeks time, which would afford the boy daily rehearsals.

Smiling vengefully, Lady Elizabeth congratulated herself on her cleverness. She might not have been able officially to arrange for Harry to be taught music at Hogwarts, but she was absolutely certain that Dumbledore could not in any way veto her proposal that the boy ought to perform at one of the best known wizarding choral festivals. After all, it would be the old man's chance to show off Harry and his talents, and possibly also to convince the public that the boy had not gone stark raving mad, as they seemed to think after the proclamation of the return of the Dark Lord. She was also willing to offer the headmaster the possibility to enrol the Hogwarts School Choir to sing during the Festival. Any refusal on the headmaster's part would therefore be received by the board of governors as restricting the children's development, effectively urging them to reconsider the old man's suitability for the position he held.

Smirking with satisfaction, Lady Elizabeth put on her bonnet and called on Dotty to order her to ready the carriage. It was time to pay her old friend, Horace Slughorn, a visit.

'Merlin, are you sure about it, mate?' asked Ron in a whisper. 'We'll be in deep shit if we get caught.'

Harry shrugged, unconcerned. He really wanted to go to Hogsmeade. Well, in all honesty, he really wanted to see Rupert, from whom he had received a rather straightforward message two days before:

_Hogsmeade on Friday. 5pm. Be there! – Rprt_

Smiling at his cousin's tendency for dropping vowels in writing as well as in speech, Harry stuffed the letter into his pocket and waited until Hermione went up the staircase to the girls' dormitory before asking Ron to come along.

'Yes, I am,' Harry whispered back forcefully. 'Go back if you intend to keep pissing yourself all the way,' he snapped, annoyed with Ron's incessant worries.

Weasley scowled at the other boy. 'If we weren't under the cloak, you'd be eating snow now,' he said darkly.

'Right...' drawled Harry, chuckling. 'Don't be so touchy. Anyway, we've got to hurry. It's almost five. I bet Rupert's downing his second pint by now and I really don't want to be forced to harbour a fugitive on the floor in our dorm if he's too drunk to return to Grove.'

Ron made a sour face. He religiously despised 'posh twats', but even he wasn't stupid enough to refuse a fun day out just because he had to spend it with his best friend's toffee-nosed cousin.

'Cheer up, mate,' said Harry merrily, whacking Ron none-too-gently on the shoulder. 'Hogwarts' rules say that they have to catch you drunk three times before they chuck you out. I've checked. That is, of course, assuming that they catch you. But really, Hugo Pelling has never missed an opportunity to get pissed and he's still around.'

Ron did not see it fit to dignify Harry's words with a reply. Instead, he stared unbelievingly, shook his head with a snort, and pushed his friend to walk faster.

Covered with the invisibility cloak, the boys made their way to Hogsmeade in silence, the fear of detection accompanying them all the way. Despite his perceived indifference to being caught, Harry was actually more afraid than he was willing to let on. He realised that if the escapade was detected, Aunt Elizabeth would not let either him or Rupert off. Not to mention Professor Slughorn, who might have been rather indulgent in general but even he would have to punish them for such a blatant disregard of school rules.

'Where are we meeting your cousin?' asked Ron, as they crossed the boundary of the village and took the cloak off.

'Three Broomsticks,' replied Harry shortly. 'Let's hurry up. It's bloody freezing.' That said, the boy rubbed his hands, trying to create at least a tiny bit of heat. Having failed miserably to warm his chilled palms, Harry grabbed Ron's arm and dragged him to Madam Rosmerta's pub, eager to get inside as quickly as possible. Weasley's protests against being manhandled fell on deaf ears.

The Three Broomsticks was usually a rather crowded establishment and on that Friday afternoon it was no different. Witches and wizards of all persuasions sat around the tables, sipping sherry from little glasses, downing mugs full of butterbeer, or grunting after pouring firewhiskey down their throats. There were some that ate, some that danced, and some that sang, all of them creating that peculiar atmosphere that could only be associated with a wizarding pub.

Upon entering the Three Broomsticks, Harry felt a wave of heat hit his face. He shuddered at the sudden change of temperature, but smiled immediately afterwards, relishing in the glorious feeling of cosiness. The boy took his cloak and hat off, and started to search for Rupert, his jaw almost falling to the floor when he finally saw him. Pulling Ron by his sleeve, Harry walked over to the table where Rupert sat with a friend of his own, drinking something that seemed to be an nth pint in a row.

'You can't be fucking serious,' he growled when they finally approached the table. Rupert looked up in surprise.

'Harry!' the boy chirped. 'How kind of you to honour us with your presence! And that fine friend of yours is...?' Rupert asked, turning into a mock-ellipsis at the end.

'What the fuck are you wearing?' hissed Harry, sitting at the table and pushing Ron into the seat beside him.

Indeed, the boy could be excused for asking that particular question. Both Rupert and his friend were wearing identical black tailcoats and silvery waistcoats, checked spongebag trousers, white shirts with stiff collars, and white bow-ties.

'School uniform,' replied Rupert, as if it was the most natural thing to say.

'I know that, idiot,' snapped Harry. 'Why didn't you change? Do you want to get caught?'

Rupert put his glass on the table and stared at Harry incomprehensibly. 'Well then, your highness, maybe you'll tell me how the hell were we to leave our house without our uniforms on? Our housemaster would have us on the Roll in a second!'

Ron snorted hearing that. 'You've got to wear that poncey stuff every day, all day?'

Rupert's eyes narrowed as he looked at the boy with resentment. 'I do not recall us having been introduced,' he said formally, the aloof expression on his face putting Ron off even more.

Harry rolled his eyes. It was so typical of Rupert. Personally, he had found his cousin's attitude rather amusing to watch, but he knew that Ron would not appreciate it. It was, therefore, the time to intervene.

'Rupert, this is my best mate, Ron Weasley. Ron, this is my cousin, Rupert Fellowes,' Harry introduced the two boys. 'Now it's your turn, I believe,' he said, looking pointedly towards Rupert's companion.

'Pleasure,' said Rupert, though the tone of his voice didn't agree with the statement. 'And this is _my_ best mate, William Dougherty. Will, this is my cousin, Harry Potter, and, as you may have already noticed, that obscenely prejudiced fellow by his side is your equivalent.'

'Pleased to meet you,' said William, shaking Harry's hand. Ron stared darkly at the two boys.

'Any relation to Wentworth Dougherty?' asked Harry, remembering the boy who so annoyed Ralph.

'He's my uncle,' replied Will. 'My father's younger brother. How do you know him?'

'It's more that I know _of_ him rather than him.' Harry smiled and was about to ask another question when Madam Rosmerta arrived to take their orders. He requested two bottles of butterbeer for himself and Ron, and made a rude hand-gesture at Rupert when the boy started to mock him about it.

'We should go somewhere else,' said Rupert when the drinks arrived.

'You do choose your moments, don't you?' quipped Harry, taking a small and purposefully dainty sip of his butterbeer. 'Why didn't you say so before we ordered?'

Rupert sighed. 'Had I known you'd be such a bore here, I'd ask you to meet us at Hog's Head. At least there you wouldn't have to worry about your teachers walking in suddenly.'

'We can go there when we finish,' said Ron, and then downed his drink in three large gulps.

'That's the spirit!' exclaimed William, patting Ron on the shoulder.

'See, Harry? Even your best mate is against you,' teased Rupert. 'Now, stop drinking like a girl, hurry up and let's go.'

Seeing that he was being pointedly ignored, Rupert waited until Harry placed his drink on the table after a particularly exalted sip, snatched the mug and emptied it in three loud swallows.

'Hey!' cried Harry with outrage, trying to get his butterbeer back, but Rupert was sitting safely on the other side of the table, out of the reach of Harry's hands. 'I'll get you for that one, Fellowes!'

Cackling tauntingly, Rupert stood up from his seat, put on his coat and tossed a Galleon on the table. A moment later, they left the Three Broomsticks, slowly heading for Hog's Head.

It was very cold and windy outside, so by the time they managed to trudge through the snow into the pub, they were chilled to the bone.

'Ah, finally,' sighed Rupert with relief, as they stepped into Hog's Head. The rather tatty look of the place did not keep them from appreciating the warmth of it.

'A bottle of firewhiskey, please,' said William to the bartender, leaning on the counter with his elbow.

'I don't serve schoolboys,' replied the grey-haired man, looking patronisingly at the boys.

'We'll pay double,' offered Rupert casually, perfectly aware that the pub desperately needed customers and therefore it would be easier to get the bartender to sell them what they wanted. Despite having laughed at Harry, Rupert and William had to ask some old drunkard wizard to buy them their drinks at the Three Broomsticks.

The man behind the counter ogled them warily. He didn't like rich kids. They would usually come to his pub because he would sell them alcohol and herbs without much hassle. The lads usually paid well, but they were rowdy and got drunk easily. Not to mention that he had been in trouble for selling controlled substances to youngsters before and he really didn't want any more dealings with the Ministry. On the other hand, though, he would really use some revenue...

'Fifty galleons,' he grumbled, pulling out a bottle of his cheapest firewhiskey that usually did not cost more than five galleons a bottle.

'Fifty galleons for that swill?' asked William incredulously. 'You can have your fifty, but for something decent. That's not fit for pigs.'

'You can have this one for sixty,' the bartender hissed through his teeth, pulling out a beverage of only a slightly higher quality.

The boys looked at each other. Their faces clearly showed that they weren't particularly happy with the offer, but the prospect of a little party fuelled by pumpkin juice was a sufficient deterrent from any further arguments.

'Deal,' said Rupert, paying for the firewhiskey, conscious that he had just spent half of his monthly allowance on something that wasn't even worth the tenth of what it cost.

Having sat at the table, Harry distributed the glasses and Rupert poured the drinks.

'_Pray, charge your glasses, gentlemen!_' shouted William, snatching one of the glasses roughly and sloshing half of its contents on the table.

'Hey! Watch it! This stuff's expensive!' cried Rupert jokily, nudging his friend on the side. 'Are you going to sing anything for us, Harry?' he asked, taking a sip from his glass and scrunching his nose. 'Merlin, that's yucky...' he muttered, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his tailcoat.

Harry was a bit taken aback by the request. 'I dunno...' he said, looking at Ron surreptitiously. The redhead was staring at him in shock.

'You sing?' he asked, trying, and failing, to hide his amusement.

'Yeah, and he's bloody good at it,' replied Rupert before his cousin had a chance to deny it.

Harry turned pink with embarrassment.

'Come on, Harry, I've actually been looking forward to hearing you sing. Been telling William here what a spiffing performance you put on for us at Aunt Elizabeth's house,' implored Rupert, trying to get Harry to treat them to one of his shows.

'I'm not really in the mood...' said Harry, hiding his bright-red face behind a glass of firewhiskey.

'Oh, I know! Sing that cool hunting song! It was brilliant!' exclaimed Rupert eagerly. 'The one you sang in the village to piss off Mr Ryland, remember?'

Harry snorted without enthusiasm. Of course, he remembered. It was when the old man started banging on about how dreadful fox-hunting was. And it wasn't that Harry was a fan of hunting, not at all. He had never been out hunting after all. Only Mr Ryland was such a bore! After five minutes, Harry could take no more and started to sing a song in defence of fox-hunting, infuriating the man and making him stomp out of the pub whilst everyone else cheered him on and later congratulated him on fantastic singing.

'Oh, okay,' the boy said finally, putting on a face of a martyr. 'Just don't you dare breathe a word about it at school!' he threatened Ron darkly.

With a wide grin that didn't promise anything of the sort, Weasley nodded and gestured for Harry to proceed.

Sighing, Harry stood up from his chair. 'But I'm not singing the whole thing. It's far too long,' he clarified. Rupert nodded grudgingly.

Readying himself, Harry relaxed his shoulders and began to sing.

_When the New Year dawned in nineteen-fourteen,_

_Fox-hunting stood highest in public esteem:_

_More horses, more hounds, and more foxes were seen_

_Than any remembered there e'er had been._

_Just one thing was jarring, provoking real ire,_

_And that was the creeping advance of the wire;_

_Barbed-wire was new-fangled, modern, and cheap, _

_Efficient, progressive, and good penning sheep._

_The incoming townies who bought up the land,_

_Extended their holdings according to plan:_

_They grubbed up their hedgerows and cut down the trees,_

_And trampled on "peasants" - accountants to please. [...]_

Here Harry stopped, as he really couldn't be bothered to sing all of the seventeen stanzas.

'Oh, come on, you've hardly even started!' whined Rupert, whilst William nodded in agreement and Ron stared in amazement, speechless with shock.

'All right, a couple more then,' Harry sighed, reluctantly allowing himself to be used for entertainment purposes.

_[…] 'Twas long years ago and the land is now farmed,_

_By a strapping young son with a girl on his arm;_

_His hunt-coat is new, but his old horn is kept_

_From a box of possessions that arrived "with respect"._

_There's one other feature you'll note as you ride,_

_He forbids all barbed wire as a matter of pride._

_Those sharp coils of memory, he knows what they cost,_

_How quickly our freedoms and land may be lost!_

There was a momentary loud applause coming from his friends and a couple of other people present in the pub. Smiling broadly at the wolf-whistling and congratulations, Harry bowed, resumed his seat, and finished off his glass of firewhiskey.

'I was hoping you'd sing the part "that their father had died as a gentleman ought for the love of his land and the creed of his sport". It's the best,' said Rupert regretfully, but nonetheless raised his glass to Harry. 'So, how's your music training going?' he asked, somehow making it clear to Harry that the last thing he was interested in was the boy's knowledge of notes. He wanted to know about the Magic of Music, and whether Harry had made any progress.

'All right, I suppose,' the boy replied, shrugging his shoulders. 'Haven't had much time to practise, to be honest.'

Rupert's eyes bulged. 'You're kidding, right? You need to practise! Otherwise it shall be all for nothing. Write to Aunt Elizabeth, ask her to make Patterson come and teach you at Hogwarts too.'

'I've already done that,' said Harry sourly. 'Apparently, independent tuition is against the rules and I can't have it. At least, that's what the headmaster told her when she asked.'

Rupert sighed deeply and leaned heavily on the back of his chair, shaking his head in despair. 'Honestly, that school is just...'

But they didn't find out what the school was in Rupert's opinion. The boy suddenly stopped speaking and his eyes turned wide as saucers. 'Fuck,' he whispered, staring at something behind Harry's back. He quickly snatched the bottle of firewhiskey off the table and put it by William's feet. 'Don't turn around, Harry,' he said tensely. 'Oh Merlin, we are screwed...'

With his natural curiosity preventing him from heeding his cousin's advice, Harry turned around and almost choked on the sip of firewhiskey he was taking.

'What the hell is she doing here?' he whispered, keeping his head low. 'And with our head of house, too! Bloody hell, is she here to discuss _me_?'

'You're not that important, Harry. Not everything has to be about you,' replied Rupert teasingly, though it was clear he was feeling rather stressed. 'We need to get out, and quickly. She's not seen us yet.'

'Quick! Let's go through the back door!' whispered Harry forcefully, pointing to the exit behind the bar. The boys did not need any more encouragement. Ducking their heads, they grabbed their coats and, ignoring the bartender's indignant cry of protest, ran through the back door into a small stone-paved yard surrounded by a rather tall wall.

'Fuck!' groaned Rupert, hitting his forehead with his palm.

'We have to climb over it!' said Ron resolutely, walking over to the nearest part of the wall and placing his hands on it, as if considering the possibility of such a feat.

'And how, pray, do we do that?' snapped Rupert, annoyed.

'Shh...'said William suddenly, putting a finger to his lips. 'Listen!' he whispered, pointing to the door through which they had just left.

Indeed, there were angry noises coming from the other side.

'Blast it!' someone grumbled. 'Should've thrown them out to start with. Damn brats.'

Knowing they had no other way to escape, Harry locked the door with a spell while the others wheeled the barrels from a small hut to make a step that would make it easier for them to climb over the wall. One by one, they then jumped to the other side, theatrically wiping sweat off their brows and sighing with relief.

'Let's get going,' said Harry, herding the boys away from Hog's Head. 'If Aunt Elizabeth and Slughorn catch us, we're screwed.'

Nodding in agreement, they all scurried away as fast as they could.

'Harry, how about going to that cave where Sirius used to hide?' proposed Ron quietly, so that no one else would hear him.

'It's bloody freezing, mate,' replied Harry sceptically.

'We could have a bonfire,' said Ron, shrugging indifferently. 'And you could ask Dobby for some food...' he added, his voice almost dreamy.

Harry considered his friend's words for a moment but having come up with no good enough alternative, he led the party to the cave.

'Look around for some wood, okay?' he requested, but received only mocking glances in response.

'Really, Harry, one would have thought you were a bloody Muggle,' said Rupert, pulling his wand out and summoning enough wood for five bonfires.

'Lovely,' teased Harry, selecting some of the twigs and branches, and lighting the pile with a simple spell. Immediately, warmth filled the cave, which prompted Rupert to take his coat off and hang it over the entrance with the help of the Sticking Charm, effectively blocking any cold air from entering the cave. A moment later, Dobby provided them with food and beverages, so they could finally start to truly enjoy themselves.

As the time passed, so did the social differences between the participants, and by the end of the evening, Ronald Weasley happily engaged in a chocolate cake-eating competition with William Dougherty, leaving Harry and Rupert in the corner to watch.

But Harry did not intend to watch. He wanted to ask Rupert a question that was haunting him since he returned to school after Christmas break.

'Do you believe in the legend about the King's Men?' he queried quietly, making sure Ron and William didn't hear him.

Rupert looked rather taken aback. 'It's a fairy tale, Harry,' he replied. 'It's long gone.'

'I know,' said Harry quickly, not wanting his cousin to think he was some raving lunatic with delusions of grandeur. 'I know,' he repeated softly. 'But in all honesty, I don't see why it shouldn't be true.'

Rupert stared at him oddly. 'Because the last record of them comes from something like seventeen-fifty?' He raised his eyebrow inquiringly with a smirk playing on his lips.

'That doesn't prove anything,' said Harry stubbornly. 'Have you read any of the books written by Allara?'

Rupert made a pained face. 'Sure I did,' he replied sourly. 'His _**Magical History of Britain**_ was one of the set texts for History of Magic in my third year.'

'Really?' Harry sounded interested. 'I should read it. Otherwise I'm going to fail my OWLs miserably.'

'It's absolutely bloody boring,' said Rupert, trying to discourage the boy. 'Even more than his _**Encyclopaedia of British Magical History**_, though much more condensed, thank Merlin.'

'Well, anyway, if you've read his books, then you must know that he believed in the legend.'

'Did he?' Rupert seemed rather surprised. 'Why would he? I mean, it's not very well proved that they even existed at all. He was a historian, not a story-teller.'

'I know from a reliable source that some of his contemporaries had the King's Men's powers. Aunt Elizabeth's mother was a metamorphmagus, for instance.'

Rupert looked at Harry with shock written all over his face. 'Who were the others? Do you know?'

'Well, I was told that the Dark Lord is a Parselmouth, Nicholas Flamel is an alchemist, my grandmother, Yekaterina something... can't remember her...'

'Lopukhina. Really, Harry...'

'Okay, okay... Well, anyway, she was a Sono Witch, but apparently she's dead, so she can't be one of the King's Men. Then there was Allara himself who was supposedly a very talented Mind Reader. They could have been the descendants of the King's Men, but they failed to unite anyway, yet there must be others.'

'You're not fucking serious, Harry,' said Rupert incredulously. 'You want to recreate the King's Men? Do you even know where to start?'

'Well,' the boy carried on, unabashed, 'Look, we know at least a couple of people with the King's Men's powers. I am a Parselmouth and I'm training to be a sono wizard, too. I know a girl who's a metamorphmagus. Nicolas Flamel is still alive. That only leaves us to find a mind-reader.'

Rupert shook his head. 'No, you can't be both. There must be five. Are you going to ask the Dark Lord to come into your little fold? Or are you going to look for a sono wizard?'

'I don't need your help,' said Harry with cold fury. He didn't appreciate being taunted. 'I may actually write to Aunt Elizabeth and ask her about it. Or better yet...' _… to Emmanuel._

The final part wasn't meant for anyone's ears so Harry left it unspoken, leaving Rupert to wonder what other source of information the boy could possibly possess.

'All right, Harry, I can't promise you I'll be of any use, but you have my blessing. If you can, recreate the King's Men. But remember that you probably won't be the first one who tried. I think that if the legend is actually true, only the actual descendants of the original five can become the King's Men. It's not only about the powers. It's also about bloodlines, like everything in the wizarding world.'

Harry nodded. He understood what Rupert was trying to tell him. It was the clue he needed. Now he knew where to start: the genealogy section of the Hogwarts Library. He needed the names of the last King's Men to be able to trace their lines to the modern day.

'That was fun,' said Ron after they crossed the threshold of Hogwarts and took off the invisibility cloak. 'Actually, your cousin is better than I thought he would be. Though he's still a posh twat. I can't believe they wear those clothes to school!'

Harry smiled indulgently. Of course, Ron would enjoy himself at a party with Rupert. He knew that, and that was why he asked his best mate to come along. But he also realised that in real life Rupert was far too spoilt and extravagant for Ron's tastes, which was why Harry was pretty certain that they would never be the best of friends. That thin barrier that divided Ron and Rupert along the class lines would not disappear. It would always be there, making them feel uncomfortable in each other's company.

'Where on earth have you been?' screeched Hermione the moment they stepped into the common room. 'Slughorn was looking for you, Harry. He said to send you to him if you return before curfew as he has something important to tell you, and if you return after curfew to send you down anyway because he shall have to punish you for breaking the rules.'

Harry looked at the clock that hung on the chimney piece.

'Damn it,' he muttered, and ran out of the portrait hole. It was past eleven, which meant more than half an hour after curfew.

Arriving at Slughorn's door exactly thirty seconds later, panting slightly and inwardly cursing his stamina, Harry knocked softly and waited to be invited in.

'Ah, Mr Potter,' said the professor, opening the door widely to let the boy in. 'I've been waiting for you. If you could, please, take a seat.'

Wondering what was going on, Harry did as requested, his eyes fixed firmly on Slughorn.

'Had you arrived a little earlier I would have offered you a cup of tea,' said the man regretfully, 'but as it is, we seem to have not enough time. I called you, my boy, because I was visited by your aunt today.'

Harry nodded, making his face into a mask of polite inquiry.

'You see, she came to me with a most curious offer. She requested your participation in the Mid-Winter Choral Festival. It is her wish that you perform during the festivities as the leading soloist, accompanied by Grove School Chapel Choir.'

'What?' exclaimed Harry, totally taken aback. 'But... but I can't... I need...'

'Yes, yes,' interrupted Slughorn, raising his hand to calm the boy. 'It is obvious that you shall need to practise. I have agreed with your aunt that you shall come to my office every afternoon after your lessons to Floo to Grove School where you shall rehearse with the choir in their chapel. Naturally, it's an informal arrangement, as anything formal would have to be approved by the headmaster.'

Harry gaped at the professor. This was so clever of his aunt. She had arranged music lessons for him, and she didn't even have to ask Dumbledore! The boy didn't really want to think about how many strings Lady Elizabeth must have pulled to get him into rehearsals with Grove School Chapel Choir. Still, he felt rather overwhelmed with the opportunity. Deep inside, he could only think back to his first ever Evensong in the village and imagine himself singing with the choir. He craved to do that. On the other hand, there was the ticklish feeling of nervousness inside him. When he finally managed to shake the nerves off, he could only mutter a 'Yes, sir', and then continued to stare forward in shock.

'Indeed, you should be happy to have Lady Elizabeth Selwyn as your guardian, Mr Potter. She's an extraordinary woman. I know of no other person who would be as insistent on encouraging their children's development as your aunt. I hope you can show proper appreciation for what she's managed to do for you and study hard.'

Harry nodded, not fully listening to whatever the man had to say. His mind still wandered around the prospect of singing with one of the best boys' choirs in the wizarding Britain and of being taught by their director of music.

'Now, I believe a detention is in order,' said Slughorn, immediately getting Harry's full attention.

'But, sir!' the boy protested, but was promptly cut off.

'You will report to my office tomorrow evening, Mr Potter, and yes, I do know it's a Saturday evening. I do hope that next time you'll think twice about risking a detention by strolling along the corridors late at night after curfew. Was it worth it this time, Mr Potter?'

Harry smiled a cheeky grin. 'Yes, sir, I believe it was.'


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 – Of Detentions, Books, and Dreams

The next day Harry woke up with a headache, sand-dry throat, and chilled to the bone. Touching his burning forehead he tried to relieve the awful pain in his sinuses by kneading the top of his nose and eyebrows with the tips of his fingers, but even that did not bring him the desired relief.

'Damn,' he croaked, his voice coming out groggy, irritating his throat. Burying his head underneath the duvet, the boy tried to preserve at least a little bit of the continually escaping warmth, but his feet still felt cold and clammy.

Realising that he wouldn't get any more sleep that morning, Harry kicked off the covers and, shaking from chill, ran towards the bathroom, hastily collecting some clothes on the way. And it wasn't until a moment later that the boy fully came to comprehend how awful he felt. His throat and head hurt, he couldn't breathe through his nose at all, he was as white as a ghost, and his entire body was sore.

'Fantastic, just what I need...' growled Harry, trying to relax his muscles. 'Flu... Or some other shit.'

Sighing resignedly, the boy took a quick shower, brushed his teeth, got dressed, and emerged from the bathroom into the dormitory where his friends were still fast asleep. A glance at the clock on the wall told him it was almost eight, which meant that everyone would be waking up soon if they valued their good relations with their head of house.

Deciding that it was a perfect opportunity to go to the library to research the King's Men, Harry walked down the stairs, through the common room, and then hurried along the corridors towards the ground floor where Madam Pince's dominion was located.

'Morning,' said Harry, stifling a yawn and inclining his head in respect to the ancient librarian.

'Good morning, Mr Potter,' replied Madam Pince distractedly, practically ignoring his presence in favour of some catalogue through which she was flicking.

Shaking his head with amusement, Harry made his way towards the genealogy section, but as he stood there, staring at the tall shelves filled with books, the boy realised he had no clue what to look for. After all, how was he supposed to find the descendants of the people whose names he did not know?

'Great,' he sighed, letting out a heavy breath. He stared at the shelves pointlessly for a moment before finally arriving at an ingenious solution – he needed to read **Magical Legends**, the book mentioned by Gwen, and some wizarding biographies of the Hanoverian kings. But, as it turned out, the thing was easier said than done. Despite its rich supply of historical literature, Hogwarts Library possessed no books in which the King's Men were mentioned. **Magical Legends**, as Harry was informed by Madam Pince when he inquired after it, was kept in the Restricted Section and was unavailable for viewing, even with a pass from a teacher.

Shaking with frustration, the boy left the library and headed to the Great Hall for a late breakfast. And late he was, indeed, as the tables had been mostly empty by the time he sat down in his usual seat, and the hall looked as if a herd of ravenous hippopotamuses had rummaged through it. Milk was spilled on the tables and dirty dishes lay scattered carelessly around with crumbs and bits of toast falling off them.

Seemingly undisturbed by the mess, Harry poured himself a bowl of porridge from a half-empty tureen, buttered two pieces of cold toast and started to eat, never bothering with the fact that by the end of his meal he had been the only person present in the Great Hall, as everyone else, including the teachers, had already finished eating.

Pressing at his aching sinuses, Harry stood up and left the table, a sudden bout of irritation taking over his mind. He was annoyed with the fact that he could not find anything regarding the King's Men in the library, that he had to eat his breakfast all alone (never mind that it was his own fault), and, above all, he was angry for allowing himself to get ill, now, that he had the prospect of singing lessons before him! The threat of having to stay at Hogwarts instead of going to the rehearsal on Monday only made him feel worse. And the possibility of him not being able to go was very high. After all, who would want to have him spoil the performance with his clogged-nose-sore-throat sounds? In his current state, he would definitely not be able to live up to the expectations his voice made people have.

'Harry!'

The boy spun around only to face a breathless Hermione running down the corridor and waving at him.

'We've been looking for you,' she said, panting and pointing to Ron who had just emerged from behind the corner.

'What is it?' asked Harry, looking at his two best friends curiously.

'Where have you been, mate?' Ron all but demanded irritably. 'Hermione has been dragging me around the castle the entire morning looking for you!'

'In the library,' Harry replied evasively. 'I was up rather early. Why did you bother? I would have shown up sooner or later.'

Hermione pursed her lips with displeasure. 'If you haven't noticed, Harry, there's a Dark Lord out there, hunting for you. We need to know where you are at all times to keep you safe.'

'Merlin, you sound like Dumbledore...' muttered Harry, the over-protectiveness of his friend adding to his annoyance. 'Would it really hurt you to have some faith in me? Give me some breathing space?'

Hermione recoiled at the harsh words. 'We worry about you, Harry. Dumbledore does, too. No one is trying to constrain you.'

The boy snorted derisively. 'Yeah, right. Can't even go to the bloody loo without someone watching over me these days.'

'You know that's not true,' insisted Hermione, putting a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder. 'We only want to help you.'

'I don't need your help!' he tried to scream angrily, but all that came out was a croaky, eye-watering wheeze that only hurt his throat. Boiling with frustration, Harry clenched his fists.

'Are you all right?' asked Hermione, concerned. 'Shouldn't you visit Madam Pomfrey?'

'No,' snapped Harry, coughing.

'I think you should,' said the girl sternly, grabbing his hand and pulling him in the direction of the Hospital Wing.

'I said, no!' the boy shouted in a very hoarse voice.

'Mate, you're being ridiculous,' interjected Ron, trying to end the pointless fight. Harry shot him a look that was clearly saying 'Et tu, Brute...?'

'Maybe,' acknowledged the boy, 'But I have no intention of having that woman fuss over me. Or of staying in the Hospital Wing overnight, for that matter. Though on the other hand that could save me from a detention with Slughorn...' he mused.

When Harry finally looked back at his friends, he saw them exchanging worried glances. Sighing, he asked, 'So, what do we do today?'

Hermione looked at him oddly. 'Well, it's too cold to go outside, and you're ill anyway, so we could just go to the library. I could finish my Potions essay and you two can do whatever you please, as God knows I'm probably not going to be able to force you to do your homework on a Saturday.'

Grinning, the boys nodded simultaneously, fully agreeing with her statement.

'Okay,' said Harry. 'I need to write some letters.'

Somewhat less enthusiastically, Ron followed his two friends into the library, sighing at the unfairness of life.

_Dear Aunt Elizabeth,_

_I would like to thank you for arranging the music lessons for me. _

Harry looked at the first sentence critically. He probably wouldn't have normally thanked his aunt for the lessons, at least not in writing, but now that he thought of it, it seemed only polite to do so, especially since he wanted to ask her a favour.

_I can't wait for the first rehearsal. And I will finally be able to see if the stories Rupert told me of Grove are actually true. _

_I would also like to ask you something. Do you happen to possess a copy of **Magical Legends** in your library? I would be very grateful if you could send it to me as I really need it for a little project of mine and the copy at Hogwarts is not available for viewing. _

_Love,_

_Harry_

Ending his letter with 'Love' seemed a bit strange to Harry, however, every other thing he could come up with was either too formal or too informal for his aunt.

'I'm going to the owlery,' he announced, rising from his seat. Hermione looked up for a moment, torn between the will to finish her essay and the urge to accompany Harry.

'I'm going with you,' piped up Ron, jumping to his feet. He had been dying of boredom ever since they sat down five minutes before and was willing to take the first opportunity to get out of the library.

Harry nodded and the two of them left Hermione to complete her schoolwork.

After supper, instead of going back to the Gryffindor Tower with his friends, Harry left the Great Hall with Professor Slughorn. The Potions master appeared to be in a hurry. The assumption turned out to be true, as the moment they entered the man's office, Slughorn motioned for Harry to sit at the desk by a large bookcase and _copy '_I will not go out after curfew' one hundred times. He then provided the boy with a long roll of parchment, a couple of quills and a bottle of ink.

'Take your time, Mr Potter,' said Slughorn, grabbing a stack of folders from a cupboard. 'I'll be back soon to inspect your work.'

With a deep sigh, Harry set himself down to work. He grabbed one of the feather quills and dipped it in the ink pot.

_I will not go out after curfew_, he wrote, thinking that the sentence was most certainly a lie. After all, how on earth was he supposed not to leave his common room after curfew when the most interesting things happened only after curfew? No, definitely not possible.

The boy was about to set the quill down to write the sentence for the second time, when something ticked in his mind. He grinned mischievously.

_Copy_. Slughorn told him to _copy_ the sentences. And he did not say not to use magic. Snorting with amusement, Harry took out his wand and a moment later the parchment was filled with a hundred lines of 'I will not go out after curfew'. Pleased with himself, the boy reclined in his chair and took into his surroundings. Slughorn's bookshelf was definitely well-stocked. The man had books on almost every branch of magic. Harry stood up from his desk to take a closer look. There were books on magical ethics, politics, history, potions, transfiguration, charms, ancient runes, arithmancy, astronomy... even some classics and children's stories.

He was about to sit back down at his desk, feeling guilty for invading his professor's privacy, when a small detail made his jaw drop. Potions, ancient runes, arithmancy, and astronomy? As Harry knew, these were the prerequisites for performing any ritual magic. It was either an unusual coincidence, or Professor Slughorn was a Dark wizard, a practitioner of the Magic of Rituals, of which Emmanuel preached to be the most powerful magic in the Universe.

Harry began to inspect the shelves more closely, reading the titles on the spines of the books. They were mostly purely academic texts, things that would not raise questions were they to be noticed. It was the combination of topics that intrigued Harry. And...

'Oh...' he said softly, seeing something he wasn't quite expecting to see on a shelf of a Hogwarts professor. He felt cold chills run down his spine. Whether they were chills of fear or of excitement, he couldn't really tell. The fact remained, however, that his eyes bore into a very slim volume bound in black leather. _The State of Magical Britain, by Thomas Marvolo Riddle_.

'Voldemort was a writer?' muttered Harry, pulling the book off the shelf. It wasn't very long, compared to other specimens that surrounded it, with its two hundred pages at the most.

The boy opened the book on the first page and read the biographical note.

_**Thomas Marvolo Riddle MW **[Member of Wizengamot], b. 1 January 1926; educated at Hogwarts School and St Clare's College, Oxford, where he read Magical Law and History. In 1950, he was elected a Member of Wizengamot for the rural constituency of Tootsby in Gloucestershire. Mr Riddle's appointment made him the youngest Member in the history of Wizengamot. He is an acclaimed author and social commentator with a strong focus on cultural and political issues, history and ethics._

Harry stared at the note with raised eyebrows. He had no idea that Voldemort had actually enjoyed popularity and reverence among the people of magical Britain. He flicked through the book, catching glimpses of headings and titles of the parts into which the treaty was divided. Checking the date of printing, the boy found out that the book came out in nineteen fifty-seven, which must have been before Voldemort turned to slaughtering the people whom he did not find appealing.

Looking at the clock on the wall, Harry realised that Slughorn would be back shortly, and it wouldn't be good for him to be found searching through the Potions master's property. Making up his mind in split of a second, Harry charmed the book to fit in his pocket and, telling himself he was just borrowing it, returned to his seat.

He didn't have to wait long for Slughorn to return. The man walked into the office and smiled, seeing Harry had already finished. He must have deposited the folders somewhere as the only thing he was carrying was a small bundle.

'I hope you didn't find the _copying_ too harrowing, Mr Potter?' asked Slughorn, taking a look at Harry's parchment. A tiny flicker in the man's eyes told Harry he had been busted. The Potions master was well aware he had used magic to serve his punishment.

'No, sir,' replied the boy, hoping against all odds that maybe his transgression wasn't that obvious, even if every line was a carbon copy of the one preceding it.

'I'm glad to hear that. May I have your wand, Mr Potter?' requested the professor, extending his hand for the item in question.

'Sir, you didn't say I couldn't use magic!' blurted Harry in a bout of panic before he had a chance to think.

'Indeed, I did not say that,' replied Slughorn pensively, his outstretched hand still waiting patiently for the boy to put his wand in it.

Baffled, Harry reluctantly parted with his wand, observing the professor warily. Slughorn studied the wand for a moment before turning into his teaching mode.

'You see, Mr Potter, the problem with the Copycat Spell is that it gives you the exact copy of the first sentence, immediately betraying that you cheated,' explained the Potions master, his voice clearly implying that it was very important to know how to cheat convincingly. 'It is essential to make some alterations to the final product before handing it in. Using the Corrector Spell would do the trick, don't you think?'

Harry nodded mutely, still confused by the fact that Slughorn did not seem to be angry with him for cheating.

'B-but, sir...' the boy started weakly, not really sure how to phrase his question. 'Aren't you, well, aren't you angry?' he asked lamely, trying to appease his insecurities.

Slughorn chuckled. 'Why would I be?' he retorted. 'After all, you did exactly what I asked of you, didn't you?'

Harry nodded with a grin as, come to think of it, Slughorn was absolutely right. He did ask the boy to _copy_ the sentence.

'However,' the professor continued with sudden strictness, 'I may be angry about something else,' he said looking meaningfully towards his bookshelf. Harry immediately turned red with embarrassment. 'One of my books seems to have been misplaced.'

The boy could feel his heart thumping uncontrollably in his chest.

'I-I'm... I'm sorry, sir,' he stammered, producing the book out of his pocket. 'It's just... it seemed really interesting when I saw it on the shelf, and I thought you wouldn't mind me just taking a look at it, and then I saw who wrote it, and it was the moment you entered, and I got scared that maybe you wouldn't want me to touch your things or read this book, and I just panicked and stuffed it in my pocket. But I wasn't going to take it, honest!' babbled Harry, looking at his feet. He put the book on the desk in front of him, feeling more embarrassed than he had ever felt in his entire life.

'Mr Potter, I've been a teacher for more than sixty years now. I can tell a bull story, especially one so blatantly obvious,' said Slughorn sharply. 'Next time, if you want to borrow a book, simply ask. You are more than welcome to borrow books from my personal library, provided I am informed of the fact. Is that clear?'

Harry nodded, his face still burning with shame. 'I'm sorry,' he mumbled in apology.

Slughorn sighed and picked up the book Harry had chosen, his eyes widening when he saw the title. 'Yes, this book is certainly worth reading,' the professor said quietly. 'You may borrow it, Mr Potter, but be careful. Mr Riddle can be rather... uh... persuasive. You should weigh every word you read in this book. Be wary of the little nuances, Mr Potter. It's not an easy read, but it's illuminating.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Harry, painfully aware that Slughorn was definitely right. After all, the book was written by _Voldemort_. He must tread carefully.

'Ah, and Mr Potter?' added Slughorn, just as Harry opened the door to leave.

'Professor?'

'Take that,' he said, throwing a phial of something gooey at Harry. The boy caught it easily. 'It's the Pepper Up Potion. You clearly need it.'

_The Responsibility of the Magical Folk _was the first chapter of Tom Riddle's treatise. Getting more and more curious with every passing second, Harry sat on his bed leaning comfortably against the wooden headboard (which he had padded with his pillow), and began to read. He was hardly able to explain his deep interest in Voldemort's philosophy. Saying that it was merely to get to know one's enemy didn't quite cut it anymore and the boy was horrified with the fact that, having read the first couple of pages, he could hardly disagree with the Dark Lord's stance.

As he read, he became so engrossed in the book he failed to take proper notice of his deep exhaustion, unknowingly slipping into light slumber...

_'Mr Riddle...' said a flirtatious voice of a beautiful woman. The image to be seen was clearly of her, dressed in enchanting, cashmere robes, greeting a man on the threshold of her stately house. _

_'Lady Selwyn,' replied the visitor. He was as handsome as they came, with his black, velvety hair, dark eyes, tall and lanky physique, nicely clipped accent, and fashionable clothing. 'It's an honour.'_

_'You flatter me, sir,' she replied, touching her chestnut-coloured locks and tilting her head coquettishly. 'But come... Drinks shall be served in a matter of seconds and I dare say Ralphie shall be happy to see you again.'_

_Mr Riddle smiled charmingly and then followed Lady Selwyn inside. _

_The scene changed... _

_Three people were sitting in front of the fireplace in an exquisite drawing room. They were in the Selwyn Castle and they were talking, sipping hot chocolate from oddly shaped, horn-like mugs. Lady Selwyn, Mr Thomas Riddle, and Ralph Selwyn were having an evening-time conversation, with Mr Riddle, a famous politician and writer, visiting at the request of Lady Gwendolyn to give the ten-year-old Lord Ralph a piece of his mind._

_'Mr Riddle,' said Ralph seriously, which coupled with his childish voice had quite a comical effect. 'You talk of Muggleborns polluting our bloodlines, diluting our traditions, and disrespecting our values. You point them out to be the reason for the recent restrictions placed on using certain kinds of magic and you also say that they can't be trusted with magic because they sell our secrets to their families, jeopardising the safety of the entire community. Now, I don't mean to be disrespectful in any way, sir, but you have been brought up among Muggles, with no notion of magic until you received a letter from Hogwarts, which in the eye of a particularly fundamentalist blood-purist would be seen as being in the exact same situation as a Muggleborn coming to the wizarding world. Don't you think that what you preach is rather detached from the reality of your situation?'_

_Mr Riddle stared at the child for a brief moment. He had been to many households of Pureblood families to bestow his wealth of knowledge on the offspring of some of his voters, however, none of them had been as articulate as Ralph Selwyn. The boy spoke as if he possessed an adult mind – his thoughts and reasoning should hardly be considered childish, which, coupled with his youthful face and voice made for a rather peculiar image. _

_'Your reasoning is very sound, Master Ralph,' replied Mr Riddle. 'Of course, coming from a background such as mine makes my job all the more difficult. However, let me get one thing straight first. I don't think that Muggleborns pollute wizarding bloodlines. I don't think of them in the category of filth, not at all. On the matter of bloodlines, I have only ever stated that Muggleborns dilute the ancestral blood that has been conditioned for generations to show certain qualities that families value, like aptitude for Mind Magic, Parseltongue, or Sono Magic. It has been scientifically proved that a family of a long line of Parselmouths is less likely to produce a Parselmouth if one of the parents is a Muggleborn without the Gift. Hence my apprehension._

_'Also, as you have pointed out, my deficient upbringing puts me on the same level with Muggleborns in regards to our knowledge of the magical world. Of course, as I have long argued, Muggleborns hardly ever have any appreciation for our culture. They come into our world, bringing their own traditions and clinging to their own values, however, while saying that I have never meant the Muggleborns, however few there are of those, who assimilate. I, and also some Muggleborns I know, took the effort to learn about the magical world, which is not a simple thing to do. It takes a long time, but it's doable. I believe in complete naturalisation of Muggleborns, but I can only do so much if they are not partial themselves.'_

_Mr Riddle stopped talking and observed the boy for a moment as he struggled to come to terms with all the political implications that sprung from Mr Riddle's statements. _

_'What would you do if a Muggleborn married into an old family?' asked Ralph finally, when he had digested the facts._

_'Nothing,' replied Mr Riddle. 'I would, obviously, discourage mixed marriages as they are not healthy for the progeny, but at the end of the day a Pureblood has the right to decide for himself. I should not interfere, but to make sure that the information on possible implications was available on request to all concerned with the future of their lines.'_

_'Mr Riddle,' said Ralph with all the gravity his ten-year-old being could muster, 'I have recently learnt that the Ministry introduced all the new restrictive laws in order to accommodate Muggleborns who are not fully integrated with our world and they do not understand our customs and values. The most recent restriction on Animagi and on using magic by minors is deeply detrimental to our development. Without constant stimulation our magical cores are not going to develop properly and thus the next generation's magic will be far weaker than the magic of our ancestors. Without the required training, children with Gifts will not develop them properly and that rare magic may also disappear, just as we've seen the demise of people who have the great affinity with dragons due to the health and safety restrictions.'_

_'Yes, of course, I'm fully aware of the shortcomings of our Government,' replied Mr Riddle, sighing. 'The only possible way of changing that is to commence a big campaign against the dumbing down of our educational system and against the ridiculous notion that everyone who comes into our world must be made feel good. Soon we shall start to set up blood banks for vampires instead of having them hunt animals, and designate hunting grounds for werewolves to make them feel better about themselves. That's, of course, unacceptable. But frankly, what we really need is not to make all the wizards, Muggleborns and Purebloods, equal, but to encourage a society where both sides complement one another, just like in industry one person makes flour and the other makes bread. We all have different skills, different knowledge, different schooling and social conditioning. And those who come into our world should accept the fact that our society has been fully formed for some time now, that there are familial bonds that we shouldn't break and that some people have certain positions of which they should not be deposed. I am a perfect example of a person who came into this world and thanks to hard work and dedication managed to gain a certain standing in the society. Now, we need to teach the incoming Muggleborns that if they fail to assimilate, if they don't work hard and commit themselves, they shan't achieve anything worthwhile...'_

_The scene changed halfway through Mr Riddle's monologue, disturbing the dream. Two teenagers were standing in a cosy playroom, talking in hushed voices, one of them rather aggravated, the other calm and collected._

_'I can't believe that this man is fucking my mother!' said Ralph in an angry whisper. 'He used to come here when I was just ten, talking to me about politics and ethics and fucking morality!'_

_'Oh, Ralph, but you suspected it for years now,' replied the other boy, exasperated. 'It's no news to you.'_

_'Well, I've never seen them kissing before today!' growled Ralph. 'They were standing in front of mama's bedroom, and Mr Riddle was holding her, and... Ugh... No, I'm not recalling that scene. It was disgusting.'_

_'I think you're overreacting.'_

_'Jamie...shut up, please,' said Ralph, his voice low from the amount of anger the boy was trying to restrain. _

_Jamie laughed. 'Honestly, Ralph, why don't you just go to the village and play footie, or something? Take your mind off things? Mr Riddle shall be going back to London on Monday and you probably shan't see him for another week or so.'_

_Seeing that Ralph was in no mood for his carefree attitude, Jamie excused himself, leaving the annoyed boy to his own devices._


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you for all your reviews! Chapter 7 for you:)

Chapter 7 – 'He was a lot like you...'

'_And he shall purify, and he shall purifyyyyyyyy... the sons of Levi... That they may offer unto the Lord and offering in righteousness, in righteousness..._'

The boys sang with feeling. They meant the words they enunciated, and they sang with understanding and spirit, making old master Walley proud that he had the privilege to teach such a talented group of young men.

'Excellent!' he cried, clasping his hands to express his enthusiasm. The choristers grinned maniacally. It was not very often that they got to hear so blatant a praise from their Director of Music. 'Now, if you please change to the green book. We shall be staying with Handel for the time being, as I wanted to rehearse _Dixit Dominus _for the Festival. Mr Potter, it's a difficult piece, but I expect you shall have no problems learning it. After that, we'll do _Birthday Ode for Queen Anne_, where Mr Potter has a solo, _Eternal Source of Light Divine_. Again, a difficult piece, especially for someone who has just started to learn, but those with aptitude for Sono Magic tend to find these things much easier. Mr Potter, we'll have to work on your voice every day so that we get the right sound at the Festival. Your voice is not yet fully broken, so that part may be slightly difficult for you, but, like I said, Sono Wizards find it rather easy to modulate their voices. Right, enough said. Off we go!'

As Master Walley, with a huge smile gracing his features, took to conducting, the boys stumbled over the first notes.

'Argh, stop!' cried the director. 'Don't you remember? It must be in UNISON! All trebles in UNISON! I don't want to hear individual voices sticking out. Again, from the beginning.'

And so it went, an hour-and-a-half-worth of practising different pieces of music, peppered with 'I must have praised you too early!', 'Stop right there! It's a B flat!', 'Fantastic!', 'You nailed it!', 'I feel like I'm standing among bleating sheep!', and so on.

'You're good,' said Charlie Moore, lighting a cigarette as they stood behind the chapel, out of the view of the prying eyes of the masters. 'You'd make a decent Sono Wizard, though I think it's a bit too late for you to achieve Mastery.'

Harry nodded regretfully. 'Yeah, I know. No, thanks,' he added when Charlie offered him a fag. 'It's not good for your voice,' he said cheekily with an impish gleam in his eye.

Charlie snorted. 'It's not some Muggle crap, Harry. They are magical herbs. They make you feel good. You sure you won't try one?'

Reluctantly, Harry took one of the cigarettes. They looked much different than the Muggle version. They were brownish green in colour and resembled twisted leaves, shaped to look like a cigarette.

The boy put the strange fag between his lips and lit it with his wand, inhaling the smoke that immediately filled his mouth. The sensation was hard to describe. The smoke had some sweetness to it, but generally the taste was very spicy, irritating Harry's throat. He coughed violently and his eyes watered. He heard Charlie laugh.

'What's so funny?' he wheezed, annoyed. '"Feel good",' he mocked.

'Well, it's an acquired taste, but yes, they do make you feel good,' replied Charlie, and then inhaled more of the strange substance.

Reluctantly, Harry copied the other boy. Surprised, he realised that its taste was much less foul this time. 'Why was Master Walley talking about Sono Magic so openly?' asked Harry. 'Isn't it illegal? He sounded rather encouraging about it.'

Charlie snorted. 'Well, yes, it's generally banned, but you'll find that masters at Grove tend to support anything that advances your magic. We have NEWTs electives that cover Dark Arts, for instance, but it's rather boring because for legal reasons we're not allowed to cast any spells. It's just the ethical issues and theory. Father told me they used to have that at Hogwarts too, but then it was scrapped because of some health and safety issues. Don't know what's so dangerous about it, to be honest. I would usually do my Potions homework in that lesson, as we would always have Potions after that and I was too lazy to do it earlier. I reckon I would have fallen asleep otherwise.'

Harry snorted with laughter. 'Sounds like History of Magic at Hogwarts. The teacher's a ghost and he must have died sometime in the seventeenth century, considering the material he teaches. Everyone generally catches up on sleep in his lessons.'

They were silent for a moment, each one smoking his 'cigarette'.

'They are called "fligs", by the way,' said Charlie, pointing to the rolled herbs in his hand.

'They're actually rather nice,' replied Harry who had just begun to appreciate the feeling of deep relaxation and calm induced on him by the flig.

'They are,' confirmed Charlie. 'Just be careful with them around the masters. It's not legal to sell herbs to minors and adults tend to be quite strict about it, especially at school.'

Harry nodded. 'Where do you get them?' he asked curiously.

Charlie laughed. 'Caught the bug already, haven't you? You can't buy fligs. You can buy herbs in any apothecary, if they sell them to you, or in a pub, where they are even less likely to sell them to a minor, unless it's a particularly dodgy place. Then you charm the herbs with the Fligo Spell and you get fligs. You should do your own for the best results, which is why it's nearly impossible to get a hold of ready-made fligs. Personally, I grow my own herbs in our herb garden. I told my mother I need them for Potions, but I'm not sure she bought that. Then again, buying herbs in an apothecary is not that easy. They are controlled substances and if you're not a Healer or a Potioneer it's rather difficult.'

Harry nodded. He already knew that. The fact that Ministry strictly controlled magical plants and substances was why there were so many break-ins to the Potions master's storage at Hogwarts. Pupils simply couldn't get any herbs without the school's clearance – the list of ingredients sent every year with the school letter.

'I'd like to see my aunt's face if I planted fligs in her garden,' mused Harry, eliciting a snort from Charlie. 'How long have you actually been singing?' asked Harry, trying to change the topic. After hearing Charlie's rendition of _The Three Kings_ by Cornelius, he was pretty certain that the boy was one of the best singers he had ever heard. Charlie's voice was a very deep and rich baritone, very beautiful, perfectly pitched, and inexplicably moving.

'I started in a choir when I was six,' the boy replied, 'so it would be twelve years now.'

'Are you studying Sono Magic too?' Harry asked again, realising too late that the question was not one he should be asking. Charlie's pointed look confirmed his worries.

'Sorry,' muttered Harry, embarrassed. 'Shouldn't have asked...'

'It's quite all right,' Charlie replied tactfully. 'Watch carefully,' he ordered and began whistling a surprisingly pleasant tune. A moment later, Harry watched with amazement as a horde of ghost-like fairies descended on a shaft of glittering light and danced in front of the boys.

Harry looked up at the whistling Charlie who winked at him and pointed his chin to the ethereal fairies. The tune Charlie was whistling changed slightly and when Harry looked back at the ghost-like figures he could not help but laugh out loud. The fairies started to strip off their clothes and dance a very provocative dance.

'I didn't know you could do that with the Magic of Music. Ever tried that one on girls?' said Harry with a snort of laughter. Charlie stopped whistling and grinned mischievously. The fairies disappeared before they had a chance to reach their knickers.

'You can do everything with the Magic of Music,' he replied. 'You can kill people with the right tune. You can make them stop breathing, for instance. But you have to be really, _really_ good to do that.'

'Would you... Would you be able to kill someone?' asked Harry with awe.

'I don't know. Never tried,' Charlie replied dryly.

Harry's cheeks flushed. 'That's not what I meant,' he mumbled, horrified of what he might have just implied.

'I know, just joking,' said Charlie, waving his hand dismissively. 'Though, to be honest, I don't think I could kill with my music. Sono Wizards really have to mean what they do. That's why it's so dangerous in the wrong hands.'

Harry acknowledged the boy's words with a nod and looked at his watch.

'I should be going back,' he said. 'Otherwise, Slughorn shall have me in detention for the rest of the week.'

'True,' agreed Charlie, checking his own watch. 'I ought to be going, too.'

Before they parted, Charlie offered Harry a string of liquorice.

'Eat it, or you'll be smelling of fligs,' he urged and then disappeared in a long cloister.

The boy put the sweet in his mouth and, slowly chewing on it, blissfully took into his surroundings, enjoying the view before he returned to Hogwarts.

As much as he loved his own school, Grove had an atmosphere that was absolutely in the league of its own. The beauty of the mediaeval cloisters, boarding houses, schools and chapel was overwhelming. At Grove, the time had stopped long ago and only the multitude of names of former pupils carved in marble plates along the walls told a visitor that it was the twentieth, not the fifteenth, century.

The entire school was built of sandstone, its dreaming spires shot high into the sky, and its idyllic green lawns and playing fields gave it a serene, unblemished look. The pupils, dressed in black tailcoats and stiff, white collars looked as if they came from a completely different planet. Everything was very much detached from reality.

Harry smiled indulgently, recognising all the signs of grotesque privilege the school represented. Still, this quaint, carefree, and delightfully comfortable way of life had very much struck his fancy. He thought he wouldn't have minded going to school at Grove. Certainly, if he ever had children, he would seriously consider sending them there.

With a heavy sigh, the boy slowly returned to the porter's lodge where he used the Floo network to return to the Entrance Hall at Hogwarts, thinking how nice it would be to transfer schools for one term to see how things really were at Grove.

It took a couple of days for Harry to get used to his new routine of choir practices in the afternoons, but when he finally did, he found he was enjoying himself immensely. Despite the fact that the music they were learning was very difficult to perform, especially since Harry still struggled to sight-read, he loved singing, he put his entire being into it, and could therefore reap the benefits.

He also made friends with Charlie Moore, one of the most eccentric people he had ever met. Charlie, or rather Charles Moore, Earl Harlington, the only son and heir of the Marquess of Hinchbury, had a rather unhealthy obsession with everything concerning numbers, be it Arithmancy, or Muggle Mathematics. He loved numbers and equations so much he even checked the compatibility of different brands of breakfast cereals with his stomach with Arithmancy calculations.

Harry was slowly beginning to contemplate sharing with Charlie the mad idea of resurrecting the legend of the King's Men, but was too afraid of embarrassing himself to actually bring it up. He tried to convince himself that it was not a lack of courage on his part that prevented him from doing so, but rather the fact that he did not yet have a plan comprehensive enough and wanted to establish a firmer foundation for his future actions before he shared his ambition with anyone. Deep down, however, he was aware it all boiled down to his social ineptitude and the fear of being ridiculed, both of which he desperately wanted to be rid of. He would tell himself multiple times during the day that being laughed at was nothing wrong. His cousin, Rupert, would always laugh along and sometimes add even more embarrassing details about himself to keep the fire burning. But then, Rupert had none of Harry's insecurities, he never felt the need to prove anything to anyone. Harry simply lacked the self-esteem. He thought himself ridiculous enough – the last thing he needed was to add any further embarrassment.

Aunt Elizabeth's response arrived at a rather inconvenient time – it reached Harry at breakfast, which meant he couldn't avoid his friends' questions regarding the parcel he received.

_Dear Harry, _the letter that accompanied the package started.

_Having an inkling as to why you're asking for that particular book (Rupert has a rather loose tongue), I'm sending you another three books that you may find useful for your 'little project', as you call it. I should like to warn you, however, that the search upon which you're embarking may be fruitless and a waste of time. Many have tried it before and failed. That said, I shall not discourage you, especially if you are absolutely convinced that it's worthwhile, but I want you to know that the task shall most probably be arduous and frustrating. Remember that you may always expect me to help you whenever I am able._

_I hope you're enjoying your music lessons._

_Love,_

_Aunt Elizabeth_

The boy surreptitiously glanced at the titles in the box. There was, of course, **Magical Legends**, but also **The King's Men – Only a Myth?**, **William the Conqueror and His Court**, **Latin – A Guide For Beginners**. Confused as to why Aunt Elizabeth sent him a Latin textbook, Harry grabbed the parcel and fled the Great Hall for the privacy of the Room of Requirement, where he opened **Magical Legends** and immediately looked up the myth he was after, promising himself to read the whole book in his spare time. It was important to him to get to know the wizarding world as thoroughly as possible, which was one of the reasons why he thought Tom Riddle's book a very interesting read with which he agreed whole-heartedly. Not that he would tell anyone. No one would believe if he argued that Voldemort's ideas, before he became the Dark Lord, were very sound and reasonable. He was simply determined to present them as his own, which would surely abate other people's reactions.

Having reached the chapter entitled 'The Men of Our King', the boy blinked in surprise at how short the legend was. Merely one page long. He had a sudden suspicion that it wasn't the full version of the legend. He wondered if the full version actually existed.

_It all began in the year of Our Lord 1066, when William of Normandy invaded the white chalk coast of Albion. He brought with him men and horses, all ready to subjugate the peoples of Britain and conquer their lands. William, however, had a different plan. Aware that his French barons could not give him the power he craved, he sent out some of his men to search the land for the best of the best – powerful and loyal men who should ensure he became the mightiest Prince on earth._

_Upon their return, six noblemen were brought with them before the King, all of them from different parts of the country. There was a Snake-speaker, one of the Snake family; and a Master of Minds, one of the Royals from the North; and a Shape-shifter, from the Blackest Mountain; and Diana's Child; and of the Grand Old Dukes came one whose voice alone to Hells or Heavens took; and the last came one of families impure, poisoning water and healing with valve._

_Each of the six men received lands and riches. The King found them wives and supported their offspring in their endeavours. Thus it was for seven centuries when all of a sudden the King's Men disappeared, their duty to King and country abandoned. The only thing left behind was a mysterious note: WE SHALL RETURN WHEN OUR WORLD RETURNS._

Harry stared at the legend with disappointment. It didn't tell him much he hadn't already known. He had known that the King's Men were a Parselmouth, a Mind Reader, a Metamorphmagus, an Animagus, a Sono Wizard, and an Alchemist. What was new to him, however, was the curious note. 'We shall return when our world returns'. What did it mean? Another thing that confused him was the descriptions of the King's Men. He was pretty certain they were clues as to who they were, but that fact was pretty obvious. Anyone reading the legend would arrive at the same conclusion. The problem was, what did they mean? What was 'the Snake family'? Or 'the Royals from the North'? Or 'the Blackest Mountain'? Who was 'Diana'? Who were 'the Grand Old Dukes'? Or 'families impure'?

With more questions than answers, the boy chucked the book back into the box and reclined in the armchair in which he was sitting, wishing for more padding which the Room immediately provided.

The next step seemed pretty obvious to him – he needed to read the books sent by Aunt Elizabeth, and if that didn't help to decipher the mysterious names he would start looking through historical references of the period and try to find some clues.

For now, however, aware that his sudden disappearance from the Great Hall must have caused some suspicion among his friends, Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room which was, as usual, messy, loud, and full of hyperactive adolescent boys and girls.

'Harry!' exclaimed Hermione, who had spotted him immediately the moment he crossed the threshold. 'Where have you run off to?' she asked, trying (and failing) to reign in the curiosity that permeated her voice.

'I didn't "run off" anywhere,' said Harry mock-indignantly. 'I merely wanted to inspect the contents of the parcel in private. I see no reason for showing my post to the entire school.'

'Was it something secret you received?' the girl asked immediately. 'Was it from Professor Dumbledore?'

Instead of rolling his eyes, as he had an overwhelming desire to do, Harry merely shook his head.

'No,' he replied shortly. 'It's from my aunt. I asked for some supplementary reading for History of Magic, because our textbook is useless and boring. And I'm not going down on our bet without a proper fight.' The boy grinned inwardly at his delectable choice of words. He managed to conceal the truth and at the same time told absolutely no lies.

Hermione's face grew serious. 'Well, for your sake I hope you win that bet. And just so you know, our textbook is very comprehensive. It's just Professor Binns who doesn't make the best of it. I wish he finally moved on from the mediaeval goblin wars,' she sighed, and Harry congratulated himself again on his manipulative streak. And even if he now had to listen to a litany of complaints against Professor Binns' lack of teaching talent, at least Hermione was off his case.

'Where's Ron, by the way?' asked Harry, trying to direct the topic of their conversation away from himself and his newly discovered interest in the history of magic.

'He has a meeting with Slughorn regarding his prefect duties,' said Hermione darkly. 'Apparently, some other prefect reported seeing him napping when he was supposed to patrol the corridors, and so he's now in trouble.'

'I think I'll go and wait for him by Slughorn's office,' said Harry, rising from his seat. 'He'll probably need some cheering up if Slughorn is too harsh on him.'

Despite disapproval clearly evident on her face, Hermione nodded and returned to reading the book in which she had been engrossed when Harry entered the common room. Using the opportunity, the boy ran up to his dormitory, dumped the parcel on his bed and hurried towards Slughorn's office. He hoped he would meet Ron on the way, but it seemed his luck was out, so he stood by the office door, listening to the muffled sounds coming from the inside. He could recognise Ron's voice, but he was unable to understand what was being said. The doors were too good a muffler.

Suddenly the doors swung open and the imposing form of the Potions master appeared, dismissing Ron from his office.

'I do hope you shall remember your duties next time, Mr Weasley,' said Slughorn's booming voice. 'Ah, Mr Potter! Just the person I wanted to see,' he added, noticing Harry.

'What are you doing here, mate?' asked Ron with surprise.

'Hermione said I would find you here,' the boy replied. He was about to offer to take Ron to the playing fields when Slughorn interrupted.

'Mr Potter, you don't mind coming in, I hope?' he asked kindly. 'We've got some things to discuss, I believe.'

Wondering what on earth the man might want, and searching his mind for any wrongdoings in the past week, the boy nodded and, with a curt 'Yes, sir' followed Slughorn inside the office.

'Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Potter?' offered the Potions master after Harry had seated himself on the small sofa where they normally sat during the tutorials. Realising that, if Slughorn was offering him a drink, it was most probably going to be a rather lengthy conversation, Harry nodded agreeably and a moment later on the table in between the armchair where Slughorn sat and the sofa occupied by Harry a silver tray was placed, filled with victuals far more appropriate for an afternoon tea than for something akin to elevenses. There was a silver teapot, two porcelain cups, a silver milk jug, a silver sugar bowl, silver teaspoons and forks, and a variety of different cakes and scones arranged on a multiple-tiered plate, not to mention two little bowls of clotted cream and strawberry jam.

'Help yourself, lad,' chuckled Slughorn; judging by the look on his face, apparently just as surprised as Harry to see the little feast prepared by the house-elves.

As adolescent boys rarely need much encouragement to stuff their faces with sweets, Harry accepted the cup of tea that Slughorn had just poured for him, added some milk and took a sip, and then proceeded to cut his scone, fill it with jam and cream, and, as he bit into it, marvel again at the elves' cooking skills.

'So, Mr Potter, tell me, please, what do you think of the book you borrowed from my shelf?' asked Slughorn, putting down the slice of Victoria sponge he had been blissfully eating.

'Illuminating, sir,' responded Harry shortly but very seriously. 'Simply... illuminating.'

'Yes, the book is rather _illuminating_, as you put it,' said Slughorn with a nod of agreement. 'Do you have any deeper thoughts regarding the ideas presented by Mr Riddle?'

'I would like to be as convincing and charismatic as he,' the boy said with a cheeky grin. Then he suddenly became very serious and solemn. 'Professor, considering who Mr Riddle has grown to be, do you think it's wrong of me to agree with almost everything he said in his book? Because I really think that Muggleborns should adapt to the wizarding world, not the other way round, and I don't think wizards should abandon or water down their centuries-old traditions simply for the fact that they confuse Muggleborns or make them feel alienated. If they don't understand something, it's in their interest to find out. Personally, I think that by watering down education, traditions, and laws, wizards do precisely the opposite of what they should be doing – they show that Muggleborns are stupid and that standards need to be lowered to accommodate them. Obviously, there are some magical qualities contained in Blood Magic that are available only to purebloods, but then apparently it's best to be a half-blood for the Magic of Rituals because then you've got your magical core both protected and exposed to the ambient magic and...'

'How do you know that?' asked Slughorn sharply, reminding Harry that the knowledge from his dreams was not supposed to be shared.

'I... um... I've read it somewhere,' he replied so unconvincingly that he himself had to wince.

Slughorn only raised his eyebrow, clearly indicating he didn't believe a word of it. When Harry failed to say anything else to defend himself, Slughorn sighed and shook his head resignedly.

'I'm not interested in whatever nefarious things you've been doing to come into possession of that knowledge,' he said sternly. 'But you must be careful, Mr Potter. Not many people should take kindly to hear you talk about Dark magic. Are there, by chance, any questions you'd like to ask regarding what you've read?'

'Thank you for reminding me, sir. And I'm sorry, I won't talk about it anymore. I know I shouldn't do it,' said Harry apologetically. 'And yes, I do have a question. Did you know Tom Riddle when he was at Hogwarts? I'm not sure, but I think he must have come here a few years after you started teaching. What was he like?'

Slughorn shot Harry a calculating look. 'He was a lot like you,' the man said a moment later. He then paused to consider the rest of the story he was about to divulge, which prompted a look of deep interest and anticipation to flood Harry's face. 'He even looked similar, though he had dark eyes and a slightly fairer complexion, if I remember correctly. But yes, his determination, stubbornness, and charming cheek definitely rival your own.' The Potions master smiled indulgently, looking at Harry. It was then that the boy realised that the Professor must really like him; the revelation made him feel pleasantly warm inside. 'But, I dare say, he was much more studious than you. From his first day here he studied hard to make up for his deficient childhood, trying to learn as much as possible about the wizarding world and his place in it. He was very determined. I think what he considered to be his biggest problem was lack of money. He was an orphan and didn't know anything about his true heritage before he was fourteen. I know he inherited some lands and property when he turned eighteen. But, to be honest, I have never noticed him struggle at school. He was a brilliant scholar. He was athletic, witty, and intelligent. He charmed his fellow pupils from his first day here. Even the most hard-line purebloods were impressed with him. He was often invited to his friends' houses over Christmas and probably also over summer holidays, I'm not sure.'

'Was he in any way... different? Did you suspect back then that he would become the next Dark Lord?'

'No, not at all. He was a kind, polite boy, very handsome, very charming, and very intelligent. He may have been slightly too ambitious and overly competitive, but he was very gracious in defeat, even though persistent and eager to try again if he failed. In other words, just a regular boy. _Nothing_ out of ordinary.'

'I wonder what happened that turned him to be who he is now. After all, something must have caused it. Normal people don't turn into psychopaths without some sort of a reason.'

Slughorn watched Harry intently, as the boy struggled to come to terms with the fact that Tom Riddle had not been born evil, that he had once been an ordinary boy, just like himself. What turned Tom Riddle to use his schoolboy nickname 'Voldemort' and become the worst villain of the century? Oh, Horace Slughorn, young Tom's favourite schoolmaster, knew better than anyone else. But it was a tale for another day. He had a tutorial in fifteen minutes and needed to get ready for it.

As Harry left his office, the Potions master turned towards his Dutch cabinet and unlocked one of the drawers. He then opened it and extracted a stack of letters. The newest one, on the very top of the pile, was merely three days old, and it read:

_Dear Professor Slughorn,_

_I am very glad that our correspondence continues, even though you now teach at Hogwarts again, under Dumbledore. I do hope that you're not regretting your choice – I know that the Headmaster may be rather tiresome, especially for a person such as yourself. Have you managed to prepare for the Midwinter Rites yet? _

_I must say, I find it most curious what you have said about young Mr Potter. Sono Magic? Well, that is certainly surprising, though it really ought not to be; after all, his grandmother, whom I knew personally, may I add, was an exceptionally talented Sono Witch. Poor old Allara thought we were the descendants of the King's Men. But he died before he found out that there had only ever been the King's MEN, not WOMEN, therefore she surely wasn't one to fit in his fairytale. _

_Mr Potter's interest in wizarding culture is also good news. Guide him well, Professor, just as you have once guided me. The boy is no threat to me now, but if Dumbledore starts training him and turns him against what we both believe in, then the wizarding world is lost. It's in your interest to make sure that the boy remains with us. I was thrilled to find out that Lady Elizabeth Selwyn shall be taking care of him, even though my own claim failed. We may be blood-related (did you know, our relationship by blood is now as strong as the relationship of a father and son?), but she shall certainly ensure that Mr Potter is properly looked after. Her family is famous for their adherence to traditions. I used to teach young Ralph Selwyn politics and ethics before the terrible fire happened. Sadly, the boy never really liked me. I suspect he somehow knew about my involvement with his mother._

_Professor, I would like to request a batch of Veritaserum from you. I'd order Snape to brew it but I have a gnawing feeling that I ought not to trust him. I may have to get rid of him if there is another breach of security. Dumbledore knows too much and I suspect it's Snape's doing. He's useful for now, though, so I shall spare him and observe. _

_With respect,_

_TMR_

Reading the note, Slughorn felt like his heart was breaking. Tom had been his favourite pupil, one of the few with whom he corresponded throughout the years. It was the saddest thing that happened to him in his life to see Tom go from a brilliant, consummate politician to a malevolent bully. Slughorn knew that Tom wasn't really afraid of Harry – he was worried by the sway the boy held over the public opinion. Having Harry on the same side of the culture war was surely heartening, but the Potions master knew he needed to tread carefully. The boy shouldn't be made aware that Voldemort was still largely believed to be the leader of the conservative pureblood fraction.

With a sigh, Slughorn replaced the letters and secured the cabinet. He had a group of seventh-year boys to teach, and a batch of Veritaserum to brew. He felt guilty and conflicted, knowing how many potions, both good and bad, he had supplied Voldemort with over the years. But he still had hope. He believed that his favourite boy might be saved. There simply had to be a way!


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8 – Of Festivals and King's Men

_Come, come ye sons of art, come, come away._

_Come, come ye sons of art, come, come away._

_Tune all your voices and instruments play,_

_To celebrate, to celebrate this triumphant day._

_Tune all your voices and instruments play,_

_To celebrate, to celebrate this triumphant day._

_To celebrate, to celebrate this triumphant day._

'Look! It's Harry!' Hermione whispered frantically as the first, introductory song of the Midwinter Choral Festival began. 'Ron, oh my God! It's Harry! I can't believe it! Did you know that he could actually sing?'

'Shush!' an elderly person from the row behind chastised her with a soft murmur of deprecation for the youth of today and their lack of respect for the finer things in life before Ron, at whom Hermione's excitement was directed, had a chance to respond.

'Sorry,' the girl whispered just as the solo part of Come Ye Sons of Art Away came to an end and the brilliant Grove School Chapel Choir joined in:

_Come, come ye sons of art, come, come away!_

_Come, come ye sons of art, come, come away!_

_Tune all your voices and instruments play,_

_To celebrate, to celebrate this triumphant day!_

_Tune all your voices and instruments play,_

_To celebrate, to celebrate this triumphant day!_

_To celebrate, to celebrate this triumphant day!_

'Wow...' the girl whispered, looking in amazement up to where the altar of Grove School Chapel was. The Festival would normally take place in the village that belonged to the Selwyns, however, that year, considering the number of choirs and individuals eager to perform, it was moved to a much grander setting, able to accommodate its expanded audience and participants.

Hermione stared, bewildered, as the boys of Grove School and Harry, after a short introduction from the school's headmaster and Lady Elizabeth Selwyn, went on to sing _Dixit Dominus_, their pure, soaring and piercing voices amplified by the architecture of the chapel. The boys had all been wearing red cassocks and white surplices, which was their standard choir attire – even Harry was given one of these, and Hermione couldn't stop herself from thinking that he looked adorable dressed that way.

There then followed an exquisite performance from a boy by the name of Charles Moore – a rendition of The Three Kings by Peter Cornelius. The richness and the depth of his voice was dazzling in one so young, even for Hermione who had never been a huge choral music enthusiast. She could not suppress the feeling that the boy had some magical quality to his voice, something strange that touched deep inside one's heart and soul. It was like the Imperius Curse, compelling one to listen and do its bidding. Somehow, Hermione knew that had Charlie been singing orders instead of a Christmas carol, she would have been feeling a burning desire to do whatever he asked for.

The audience gave out a collective gasp when the song ended. Throughout Charlie's performance, everyone sat breathless, mouth agape, but now that it was over, a surge of uneasiness overwhelmed the congregation. What was it that happened to them? They were somewhat relieved when another song, and the last one by Grove School Chapel Choir, started.

Harry Potter, the star of the evening, the boy whose voice soothed the masses and relieved the tension brought on by Charlie's performance, started an enchanting solo:

_Eternal source of light divine  
With double warmth thy beams display,  
And with distinguish'd glory shine,  
To add a lustre to this day. _

_The day that gave great Anna birth  
Who fix'd a lasting peace on earth. _

And then, just as Harry's voice resonated throughout the chapel, the choir joined in, giving the simple two lines of the song the pomp and grandeur that only a queen might have inspired:

_The day that gave great Anna birth  
Who fix'd a lasting peace on earth. _

After that, the boys left, accompanied by standing ovations, wolf-whistles, stomping, and shouting which appalled the older generation and which would have certainly resulted in a punishment had it been a regular school service in the chapel. No one, however, even the most traditionalist of wizards, could deny that the performance was incredible.

From the start, the audience had set their expectations high – the Festival was famous for its high standards and Grove School for its striving for excellence. Whatever the product, it would certainly be of a high quality. No one had been disappointed so far, but they didn't know what was happening behind the scene, in the Music Room, where the boys had retired for the duration of the short break...

Charlie was horrified. He didn't mean to unleash his magic – he knew it was forbidden, he knew it was considered Dark and that the majority of wizards feared it. And he knew that the punishment the headmaster dished out for such an infraction was most severe. For a moment, he had hoped that maybe no one would notice the surge of magic that left his lungs the moment he started singing, but as soon as he'd seen the congregation's reaction, he knew it was not his lucky day. Thankfully, the smell of incense was too strong in the air for anyone to notice the reek of orange peel that exploded in his vicinity.

'Charlie?' said a voice from behind the boy. It was Harry, his face full of worry. 'Are you all right?'

The boy snorted miserably, but before he had a chance to respond, Master Walley approached them. It was clear from his body language that he was most dissatisfied with what had occurred.

'Moore, do you realise what you've done?' asked the Director of Music harshly.

Charlie nodded gloomily. The boy looked small next to his imposing schoolmaster and only the knowledge of his age helped Harry not to assume that Charlie was actually a prep school boy. Moore's youthful face certainly didn't help him look more authoritative.

'Sir, I'm really sorry... I don't know how it happened. I... I couldn't stop it... I... I'm really sorry,' Charlie struggled to explain. It was plain that he was afraid of what was going to happen to him.

'You will report to the Tower tomorrow at six thirty in the morning,' replied Master Walley coldly. 'Now you better go back to the chapel and pray to whatever god you believe in that no one is going to make a formal complaint to the Ministry about the incident or you'll not only be expelled but also most probably imprisoned for life.'

'Yes, sir,' said Charlie quietly, his head hanging low.

Harry looked at the scene before him with utter terror. He liked Charlie. He liked him more than he thought possible, having only known him for less than three weeks. And he knew what was in the Tower. Charlie had taken him there when he was giving him a very comprehensive tour of Grove. The Tower wasn't really a tower, at least not anymore. In the olden days, it used to be the highest building of the school, however, recently, or rather about the beginning of the nineteenth century, it was destroyed by an explosion and only the bottom part remained. It was now a circular, half-ruined building that served as something that Grovians called 'School Court'. It meant that a miscreant would be ordered to arrive there on a certain day of the week at six thirty in the morning and he would have five minutes to plead his case in front of a panel of prefects or masters, depending on the seriousness of the crime. It was rare for the headmaster to be involved, though certainly not unheard of. Should the boy in question be found not guilty, he was normally sent on his way and allowed to take a chocolate frog from a basket that stood just by the door of the Tower to relieve him of the stress of having gone through the Trial. However, should he be found guilty, he was then ordered to bend over the old, and worn with usage, flogging block and, again depending on the severity of his crime, a prefect, a master, or the headmaster would then cane him. The headmaster would only ever get involved if the matter at hand was a serious violation of law that might bring about the interest of the Ministry of Magic. Prefects were usually called in for lesser crimes, such as stealing sweets from the school kitchens or lack of proper respect. Obviously, the level of pain inflicted by the floggings was reverted, with the prefects being the cruellest as the boys wanted to get back on the culprit for forcing them to get out of bed at such ungodly an hour. And as the only rule the prefects had to obey was 'no drawing blood', their imagination could run wild.

'I'm screwed,' groaned Charlie, burying his head in his arms.

Not really knowing what to say, Harry merely patted the boy on the shoulder assuredly.

'Come on, you'll have time for moping tomorrow,' he said jokily, trying to cheer Charlie up a bit. 'I want to hear Hogwarts' choir. I want to see who's better.'

Reluctantly and with a face of a martyr, Charlie followed Harry back into the chapel, but not before they took off their surplices.

The Choir of Hogwarts School was good. They might not have had any soloists, but as a choir they certainly were very good, even though it was rather obvious that none of them had any predisposition for the Magic of Music. Still, they sang a very beautiful, energising _Factum Est Silentium_, a couple of traditional Christmas carols, and a particularly moving _Te Lucis_. The thing that Harry liked most about their performance, though, was the fact that they had finished off with a lovely, effervescent rendition of the Hogwarts School Song, which was a pleasant, personal touch added to an excellent performance.

'Harry!' cried Hermione, spotting the boy in the quad after the first day of the Festival came to an end. She hugged him tightly. 'You were brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! I'm so proud of you!'

With his cheeks turning a bright shade of crimson, Harry returned the girl's hug and mumbled his thanks for her praise.

'Why didn't you tell us you were a chorister?' she asked in wonder. Ron snorted beside her.

'I knew about his "extracurriculars",' he said self-importantly.

'So, am I really the only one who didn't know about all of that?' Hermione asked, clearly not happy with the development.

'Errrmmm... Yes, quite possibly,' said Harry uncertainly. He absolutely didn't want her to make a scene, but the girl's reactions had been rather unpredictable as of late.

Seeing Harry's distress, Charlie decided to interfere.

'Sorry to disturb your little get-together, but we were supposed to meet your aunt, remember?' he said, looking pointedly at the younger boy.

'What?' Harry took a moment to realise what Charlie was trying to do. 'Ah, yes. Yes, of course. Sorry, Hermione. Need to run. Aunt Elizabeth doesn't like to be kept waiting.'

That said, they took off, catching a 'his aunt, my arse...' mutter from Ron.

Harry ran with Charlie along the cloisters and then through a tiny passage that led to a small garden on the back of the chapel – the exact same place where Harry had been introduced to fligs.

'I can't believe that I'm running away from my two best friends,' said Harry, shaking his head.

'Maybe you've grown apart,' suggested Charlie, pulling a small bundle out of his pocket. It was amusing to watch him trying to reach underneath his cassock to the pocket of his trousers. He then unfolded the bundle, revealing a substantial amount of illegal herbs.

'Want a flig?' he asked, shoving the herbs under Harry's nose.

'Sure,' the boy replied with laughter, pushing Charlie's hand away from his face. He then accepted two long leaves and charmed them into a roll.

For a while, they stood in silence. The weather was rather mild and pleasant, but it was hardly surprising as it was well into February and a promising beginning of spring. Some of the trees had already been blossoming and flowers appeared plentifully on the lawns and under bushes.

'Have you ever heard of the King's Men?' asked Harry suddenly, but then he blushed and felt a wave of heat wash over him. He somehow felt he had just humiliated himself.

'Yeah,' replied Charlie laconically. 'Why are you asking?'

Moore looked suspiciously at the younger boy, his eyes growing even more quizzical when he noticed Harry's embarrassment.

For a moment it seemed as if Harry did not plan to elaborate on his question, however, finally he sighed and blurted out:

'Okay, you're gonna think I lost my mind, or something, but I just need to ask. You see, I've been thinking a lot about it and I would really like to know who the King's Men were, why did they disappear, and if anything can be done to bring them back.'

Charlie did not reply immediately. He stared at Harry for an arduously long time, as if he were evaluating the boy and judging how much he could be told. Harry on his part grew even redder, thinking furiously how stupid he had been and how he must have completely humiliated himself in Charlie's eyes.

Finally, Moore said quietly, 'I see...'

Harry felt like banging his head on the chapel wall. 'Sorry,' he mumbled. 'I just...' the boy wanted to explain his crazy idea, but he was not given the chance. Charlie lifted his hand to silence him.

'Do you realise that only the descendants of the King's Men know who the others are? They have been brought up together for centuries, passing on the knowledge of their heritage together with the heirlooms they received from King William the Conqueror from father to son, waiting for the appropriate time to return. The thing is, Harry, you'll never find out who they are unless you're one of them.'

'Well, I wouldn't know if I am. I have no father to tell me anything about it,' said Harry bitterly, surprised with Charlie's response. He expected the boy to laugh at him and say that the King's Men were a fairy tale.

Charlie watched him carefully for a moment. 'True,' he muttered thoughtfully. 'Still, to be honest, I don't think your singing is up to standard,' he joked.

'I have different skills,' whispered Harry, surprising both Charlie and himself.

'Do you?'

'I can speak to snakes,' said Harry, looking Charlie straight in the eye. Moore was shocked.

'Impossible...' he whispered. 'The Potters don't have the King's Men's blood,' he added, but then, realising that he might have said too much, fell silent.

'How do you know that?' Harry demanded sharply, though quietly. 'You know more about the King's Men, don't you? Tell me.'

Charlie sighed resignedly. 'I do know quite a lot,' he admitted. 'But it's not knowledge you can just share. Come with me. We have to be quick.'

Obediently, Harry followed the command. Charlie led him through the cloisters, staircases, quadrangles and passageways. They must have walked for about fifteen minutes before they finally stopped in front of the door to Charlie's bedroom.

Like every boy's room, Charlie's room was a mess. The bed was unmade, uniforms and different kinds of clothes were scattered all over the floor, the desk was buried under stacks of books and parchments, and the smell wasn't particularly pleasant either.

Charlie, however, didn't seem to notice. He was very nonchalant about it, reminding Harry of Rupert whose room at Selwyn Castle had always been messy.

'Make yourself comfortable,' said Charlie, pointing to his bed. As an afterthought, he waved his wand and everything in the room returned neatly to its place. 'If they decide to check my room tomorrow it's better for it to be presentable,' he explained with a sheepish grin. 'Don't need any more trouble...'

Harry nodded understandingly. 'What did you want to show me?' he asked curiously.

'_Serpensortia_!' Charlie conjured a snake. 'Speak to it, Harry. Make it do something.'

Looking intently at the small coral snake, Harry obliged.

'_Greetingssss..._' he hissed formally. For some reason, Parseltongue had always been strangely formal.

The snake's head perked up. '_Ssssssss..._' it hissed back unintelligibly, yet angrily. '_What isss thisss place? Humansss..._' it kept muttering to itself, unaware that Harry had just spoken to it.

'_Brother..._' Harry hissed again. He wanted to say 'snake', but apparently that was not the right form of address.

'_Ssspeaker..._' said the snake and bowed its scaly head. '_An honour..._'

The creature's behaviour confused Harry. An honour? Why? Before he had a chance to ask, though, Charlie banished the snake and stared at Harry intensely.

'Why did it say that meeting me was an honour?' asked Harry, baffled.

'Because you're a Speaker,' replied Charlie as if it was the most natural thing on earth.

'Yes, but why does it think it's an honour?' the boy prodded, once again showing the deficiencies of his upbringing. For every wizard-born person who had been acquainted with magical fairy tales the response to that question was obvious.

'There is a fable of a Speaker, a human who can speak with snakes. Snakes revere and worship him and it's always an honour for them to meet a Speaker. They will do the Speaker's bidding, even if he told them to kill themselves.'

'Wow...'

For a moment they stood in silence.

'Harry... I-I don't know what to say, really. The Gift of Parseltongue has never appeared in the Potter family. Nor in any families they have been associated with. Your grandmother is famous for having been a brilliant Sono Witch who had taught herself to sing in Parseltongue, but she was not a Parselmouth. She didn't have the Gift. You on the other hand...' here he trailed off, looking at Harry pointedly.

'It's because of Voldemort,' explained Harry. 'Apparently, when he tried to kill me, he gave me some of his powers together with this blasted scar.'

Charlie's eyes goggled.

'You're not being serious,' he gasped.

'Eh, yeah, I am... Is there something wrong with it, apart from the obvious, of course?'

'Well, you can't just transfer powers. Even a reflected Avada Kedavra wouldn't have such a result, at least I don't think it possible. He must have done something else. He must have taken your blood and gone through the Heritage Rite, giving you his powers and claiming you as his own.'

'What?! No way,' said Harry, completely in shock. But then, suddenly, everything started to make sense. Voldemort had not made him a full heir the night he wanted to kill him. He transferred his powers, but did not seal the ritual. The scar on Harry's forehead clearly showed that the rite included blood, not only the Killing Curse which, as was commonly known, did not leave any scars. Then again, at the graveyard, when he killed Diggory, Voldemort had taken quite a lot of Harry's blood to resurrect himself. After that, at the beginning of the school year, the Dark Lord must have realised what he had done and demanded that Harry be handed over to him, as he was his closest magical relative. The odd thing, however, was that Voldemort did not fight Lady Elizabeth. He did not object to her becoming Harry's guardian – it was as if he wanted her to take on that role. But why? Things didn't quite add up for Harry. He didn't understand what the people around him wanted. Aunt Elizabeth pushed him to develop every magical talent he possessed. She wanted him to excel, to become a wizard he was meant to be. She wanted him to feel at home with all kinds of magic, all sorts of magical beings and objects. Voldemort did not harass him once this year, excluding his bid for guardianship, but that could hardly be classified as harassment. He seemed quite satisfied to go his own way, leaving Harry alone. Not that the boy complained – he had never had a peaceful year at Hogwarts and was actually looking forward to having as much time to be just a boy as possible. There were also all the people he met, all of them willing to help him to explore the wizarding world. Gwen with her books on wizarding culture and history, Hugo with his tonne of rolls of parchment from prep school, trying to introduce Harry to things that wizarding children were taught before they went to Hogwarts or other senior schools, Rupert with the Magic of Music and parties, Charlie with fligs and music and the King's Men... All the people he met since his fifth year began – the accumulation was so great that Harry had to wonder whether it had all been planned. After all, why did he meet them now? Why he had never met anyone like that before, through all the four years at Hogwarts? Had he been hanging around wrong people? If he were to be frank, he had only ever hung around Ron and Hermione. He had never been particularly sociable and others seemed rather unwilling to approach him. Was he intimidating? Or maybe simply boring?

His musings were broken by Charlie. 'I suspect,' he said, 'that were you to have a paternity test done on you and Voldemort, the result would be positive. The potion for testing relies on blood and, as we know, you share the same blood.'

Harry closed his eyes, trying to come to terms with what he had just learnt. 'May we return to the topic of the King's Men?' he asked calmly, though through gritted teeth.

Charlie snorted. 'But that's very much the topic of the King's Men. You see, the Gaunts, the very family Voldemort's mother came from, was the name of Salazar Slytherin's son which he took when he returned to Britain from exile. Slytherins have been hugely unpopular back then and he didn't want to be associated with the family. Slytherins have been called the Snake family, because of their great affinity with snakes. They were Parselmouths and commanded respect of all reptiles, even basilisks obeyed them. Salazar Slytherin was the first of the Parselmouth King's Men. You, as you now realise, are... hmm... rather closely related to him. Because the Dark Lord had given you his power to command snakes, you are now the rightful heir of Salazar Slytherin, alongside your blood father.'

Harry swallowed audibly. 'Merlin...' he whispered. 'But... how do you know that?' he asked suddenly. 'Didn't you just say that only... oh!'

'Quick on the uptake, are you?' laughed Charlie. 'Allow me to introduce myself again – Lord Charles Moore, Earl Harlington, the heir of the Marquess of Hinchbury and the descendant of the Grand Old Duke Peregrine, at your service.'

Harry stared, mouth half-agape. Despite all that he had heard about himself and Voldemort, he could not help but grin. 'Who are the others?' he asked excitedly, inwardly celebrating a huge victory. Despite what he had been told, it turned out he had been right. The King's Men really existed. What was more, they thrived in hiding, keeping their political and social influence, enjoying life, and ready to come out when the time was right.

'The others... Well, the Metamorphmagus was from the Blacks, but they now only have a Metamorphmagus girl and girls can't be King's Men. Regulus Black was a Metamorphmagus, but he's dead, so here it's just tough luck. The Flamels have always been the Alchemists and Nicholas is still kicking and he has been for the last six hundred years or so. He has a great-great-greeeeeaaaat-grandson who's thirteen and has just started here at Grove this year. I've heard he's a fabulous potioneer. Don't know if you realise, but the Flamel who served King William the Conqueror was a Mudblood, which is why they say that he came from families impure. Diana's child, the Animagus, was the son of Priestess Diana, Ethelrond. Note also the analogy to the Roman goddess of hunting. Ethelrond's descendants live under the name of Greengrass. The Greengrasses have two daughters and a son who is just seven. The Royals from the North are the Malfoys...'

'What?' exclaimed Harry, disbelievingly.

'Oh, come on. Don't be so petty,' bristled Charlie. 'They came from Scandinavia, but after the Froggies conquered us, they changed their name to Malfoy. They had a strange Saxon name before that...'

'That explains the hair...' muttered Harry. 'Royals?' he asked loudly. 'Is it why they act like such twats?'

'I've never noticed them acting like twats,' said Charlie coldly. 'They are a proud family. They've faced a lot of persecution because of who they are, just like your aunt's family, yet they have never renounced their beliefs. I think that speaks volumes of them.'

'Yeah, that they are fundamentalist and intolerant.'

'Harry, if you intend to belittle other King's Men, then you'll never be accepted as one of us,' said Charlie seriously. 'Through all those years, we have survived only thanks to unity. We can't afford to start quarrelling with each other, not now that we are so close. There has never been a better opportunity to return. We are only missing a Metamorphmagus, but if we can find a man or a boy of this ability who is closely related to the Blacks, we will be able to return and regain what once was lost.'

'How do you know that I will be able to become one of the King's Men? Voldemort may want to be one himself.'

Charlie snorted at the idea. 'The King's Men provide service to the king or queen. Can you imagine Voldemort as a serviceman? I can't. He would be more likely to become the king himself.'

'True,' said Harry, rolling his eyes. As he did so, his gaze fell on the clock on the wall. 'Holy shit! We need to go! Look at the time.'

Charlie turned around and swore. 'Let's go, quickly.'

They ran all the way back to the chapel. Panting, they arrived in the right quad, searching for Aunt Elizabeth whom they were supposed to meet.

'Harry!'

Hearing his name, Harry turned around only to see Lady Elizabeth waving at him. He tugged at Charlie's sleeve and showed him the way.

'Where have you been?' she asked when the boys had finally approached her. 'I've been standing here for the last fifteen minutes.'

'I'm sorry,' said Harry apologetically. 'We've been working on _my project_, you know.'

'Really?' Lady Elizabeth sounded suspicious. 'And have you found anything?'

'Everything I needed to know,' the boy replied cheekily and smiled seeing his aunt's eyebrows rise. 'You just need to ask the right people.'

'I do not doubt that,' she agreed and smiled kindly. 'Have you enjoyed yourself today?'

'Oh, yes. It was brilliant. Charlie is in trouble now, though.' Harry pointed to the boy by his side.

Aunt Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. 'Ah, yes. Charles Moore, isn't it? Your performance was incredible. I have never heard such a voice in one so young. You need to work on your self-control, though. The Magic of Music has never been a problem during the Festival as we have always had trusted people in the audience, but when the people heard that _Harry Potter _would be singing, we have found ourselves needing to find a bigger venue. And, of course, Dumbledore...' The woman's delightful face twisted in distaste. 'But don't worry, darling, I'll make sure you're not expelled. We are, after all, prepared for accidents like that. Should anyone file a complaint, we are well able to deal with it.'

Charlie muttered his thanks, though his face didn't show much relief. With the threat of a flogging still hanging over his head, the boy was generally rather unhappy.

'I think it's time for you to get back to Hogwarts,' said Lady Elizabeth, turning towards Harry. 'Go and get changed now. I'll see you on your next exeat or, if I can't make it, during the Easter break. And remember to practice singing daily. It's very important. I think you're ready to use your grandmother's songbook. And the phials of potions I gave you.'


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 – The Mudblood and The Toff

'I must congratulate you, my lad,' said Professor Slughorn, handing Harry a cup of herbal tea. 'Your performance at the festival was exquisite. Would you like a biscuit?'

The boy accepted a Jaffa cake, reddening when he heard Seamus and Ron snigger. They were in the tutorial with Slughorn, a week after the Festival, and Harry was in no mood to talk about his singing. He had endured seven days of merciless teasing from his fellow pupils. 'Oi, choirboy' seemed to be the favoured form of address for him among the Gryffindors.

'Thank you, sir,' muttered Harry for the sake of politeness.

'Who do you think will win the elections, sir?' asked Neville, looking sympathetically at Harry and receiving a smile full of gratitude in return for changing the subject.

'As I have never been any good at Divination, I'm afraid I can't possibly guess the answer,' said Slughorn, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He had always been easy to distract. 'With the polls as they are, I would reckon that the MTories have the best chance for victory, but you never know, Mr Longbottom. The MWhigs may just as well gain the majority, though I would not bet on the Magical Front. Fudge is simply not good enough anymore.'

'But it will be a disaster if the MTories win,' exclaimed Seamus hotly. 'Me nan always says that she had never been more miserable than under the MTories in her youth.'

'And why is that, Mr Finnigan?' asked Slughorn, tilting his head with curiosity.

'Well...' stuttered Seamus. 'They are all about toffs, aren't they? They only cater for the privileged. Me nan lives in Belfast and when she grew up, it was really tough for her. And the MTories, instead of focusing on real issues, kept banging on about magical privileges, like harder education and legalising Dark magic. They do have a point about under-age magic, though. It would be brill to be able to do magic in the holidays.'

'What's so bad about harder education?' asked Neville crossly. 'We should leave school with much better qualifications than we do now.'

'Yeah, you'd like harder education, wouldn't you?' taunted Ron, who had just failed Umbridge's new tough Transfiguration test and was threatened with a week-long detention if he didn't shape up until Monday, when those who failed would have to retake the test.

'Let's ask Snape to toughen up for Neville,' added Dean with a snigger.

Neville blushed slightly but he did not give up. 'I'm talking about something else,' he said defensively. 'Wouldn't you prefer to be learning how to become Animagi instead of turning saucers into jellyfish?'

'Well, if you want to be an Animagus you can study on your own,' said Ron angrily. 'Not all of us are so brilliant.' The last part was full of sarcasm, clearly implying that Weasley did not consider Neville to be anything but mediocre. 'We don't need a bunch of chinless wonders to get to rule us. My parents will vote for Shacklebolt. At least he was an Auror and he knows what he's doing.'

Harry barely held himself from snorting. 'Eh, Ron? But what you just said only proves that he's not fit for the office as he has no experience. He's been in the Wizengamot for less than two years, as an independent no less. He has no party back up. How do you think he will be able to change anything if whatever he proposes will be opposed?'

'But there's no better candidate, Harry!' protested Ron. 'Professor Dumbledore supports Shacklebolt!'

'Well, but considering current political moods, it's not really working in Shacklebolt's favour,' Harry pointed out, making Neville and Seamus nod grudgingly.

'Then what do_ you_ propose, Harry?' asked Neville quietly. 'Do you have any favourites?'

'Well...' the boy cringed. He wasn't sure whether it would be wise to expose his right-wing tendencies. He had met Sir Oswald Fellowes and had greatly admired the man. He was a consummate politician, able to sway the public in his favour yet without latching onto populist tendencies of Fudge or Lady Carol McMoriarty, the Merlin's Council's leader. Still, Harry realised that out of the fifth-year Gryffindor boys, only he would be willing to vote for MTories. Maybe also Neville (certainly his grandmother would), but the boy seemed to be leaning towards more liberal fractions as, even though he firmly believed in preserving magical customs and a proper introduction of Muggleborns into the wizarding world, Neville wasn't very conservative. He was more of a no-party person, who inclined towards those policies that suited him, regardless of the party that proposed them.

Realising that he had taken quite a long time to formulate a response, Harry frowned and said slowly, 'I don't really know. I don't know the parties well enough to make an educated choice. I need to read up on them a bit.' It was a complete lie. He already knew more about politics than the entire Weasley family put together. He had talked to politicians at his aunt's party, he had talked to the politicians' children and discussed the current state of affairs with them. Hugo Pelling, whose father was a high-ranking Ministry official, was particularly forthcoming. Harry had also found the boy surprisingly unbiased, despite his inclinations heavily leaning towards the MTories.

A moment later, Harry began to regret boasting his fake ignorance.

'See Harry, if you know nothing about it then you shouldn't really be talking about it. The MTories are simply foul,' said Seamus, receiving nods of agreement from Dean and Ron.

'Well, I'm sorry, but I think that every party in the Wizengamot has a tendency to care the most for the social group that provides them with the most votes,' Harry blurted out, forgetting that he was supposed to know little about wizarding politics. 'The MTories tend to cater for the rich, because they tend to get voted in by the nobility and people on top of the food chain. Landowners, business owners, even little and unimportant but enterprising people vote for them, because they know that the MTories will help them to prosper. On the other hand, those on the dole will vote for the Magical Front because it's socialist and they don't want to lose their benefits. It's as simple as that. I doubt my aunt, for instance, or Neville's grandmother, or, I don't know, Malfoy's parents, would ever vote for anyone else but the MTories. Old families value the freedom to use magic as they see fit and they tend to resent being taxed for their wealth. And no wonder. Would you like to give back fifty per cent of your money to the state? I know I wouldn't, because it's pure robbery. But look at it the other way. If the rich get richer, and if they set up businesses and provide for the poorer, hiring them for instance, or setting up all sorts of facilities, then the poor also get richer. The rich who invest and pump their money into their country's economy help the country to develop.'

'But Harry,' protested Ron, surprised by his best friend's vehement defence of the rich. 'Even if in a million years the poor would actually catch up with the rich, there is the matter of how the money differences make people feel so goddamn superior. Look at the Malfoys. They are so... aloof. Like they are better than the rest of us. They think that because they have money, live in a big house, and own so much land they can look down on others. That's why it's simply not right for people to be so disgustingly rich.'

Harry sighed. There was a lot of truth in what Ron said, but he still thought that, as Margaret Thatcher used to say, it was not the creation of wealth that was wrong but the love of money for its own sake.

'Ron, look at it as a matter of taste,' he explained, a bit too patronisingly and a bit too much like a toff. 'Some people like luxury, whereas some are content living a simple life flying around on their broomstick. Some people like classical music, which is not cheap to go and see, and some prefer to have an evening at home, playing the mandolin and singing folk songs with their family. It's just a matter of taste. And if you were to ban wealth above certain level, you'd make a large proportion of the population unhappy simply because they enjoy their caviar, their unicorn polo, breeding their winged horses, living in their stately houses, and speaking with their clipped accents. Like I said, you prefer to drop your aitches every now and then, and they prefer to drawl. Everything comes down to taste.'

That said, Harry reached for his cup and took a sip of his tea, trying to hide his grin behind the brim of the cup.

'Merlin, Harry, when did you become such a toff?' groaned Ron, fighting with himself not to add a couple of colourful adjectives to that sentence.

'And you're a hypocrite, Ron,' replied Harry defensively. 'You know that you'd give everything to live like Malfoy, but since you don't have it you'll simply disparage those richer than you.'

'You're mad,' said Ron with a snort. 'Live like Malfoy? I wouldn't change with that snooty cretin for the world.'

'Yeah, right,' said, surprisingly, Seamus. 'Come on, Ron. You can only go so far denying that you'd not like to have all the money the Malfoys have. I don't think there's anyone in the world that would say no if they were offered. They'd have to be stupid.'

'Well, I'm not as greedy as you, Finnigan. And I don't need all of the Malfoys' money to be happy.'

Later in the evening, though Ron was still fuming, he sat with Harry and Hermione in front of the fireplace in the common room. They were doing their homework and chatting, effectively preventing themselves from writing their essays at the satisfactory pace that would allow them to finish in a timely fashion.

'Harry?' Hermione's head rose again from where it was leaning over her Ancient Runes assignment. She was exceptionally chatty that evening, which was quite unlike her, especially during prep.

'Yes?' asked Harry, slightly annoyed. He enjoyed talking to his friends very much, but he would really like to have already finished the Potions essay he was writing.

'Who was that boy from Grove who sang _The Three Kings_ at the Festival?' She looked so genuinely curious that Harry didn't have the heart to get suspicious of the motives for that question.

'Charlie,' he replied laconically. 'Why?'

A moment later, Harry had a reason to regret having asked. Hermione's face blushed hot pink and she looked at her hands. With a funny feeling developing in the pit of his stomach, the boy impishly added, 'I can introduce you. But I can't promise he'll be interested.'

A horrified expression crossed Hermione's face, as Ron cackled like a hyena at Harry's cheeky wit.

'No, no...' she denied quickly. 'It's just, I was interested because he sang so beautifully,' she explained, red like a tomato. 'I've never heard someone so young sing with such a deep, rich voice. Is he our age?'

'No, actually. He's eighteen. He's leaving Grove this summer to join the Palace, you know, the magical opera house in London. He'll be studying music at the Palace Conservatoire.'

'Oh, magical opera house?' parroted Hermione, confused. 'That's interesting. Never heard about it. But really, he doesn't look any older than Ron here, for instance. I'm not talking about you, because you still look thirteen, but...'

'Thanks, Hermione,' said Harry with dark playfulness. 'I'll remember that.'

'Oh, come on... You know I didn't mean it like that. It's just that you're rather... eh...'

'A late bloomer?' supplied Ron with a cheeky grin.

'Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that...' Hermione struggled to be diplomatic.

'I don't know what you mean,' said Harry mock-indignantly.

'Okay, let's just drop it,' offered Hermione. 'But really, Harry, that Charlie's voice was simply amazing. I never really liked choirs or choral music, but what the two of you pulled off in that chapel was really incredible.'

'You know, if you want, you can join me for rehearsal tomorrow morning and then stay for the service in the chapel,' said Harry, feeling charitable. Secretly he hoped that maybe if Hermione was exposed to a lot of magical _haute _culture, she would cease her pro-Muggle tendencies and embrace being a witch. Besides, many choir members had families come to the services and sometimes to the rehearsals as well. He doubted that the Director of Music would have any objections to his bringing a friend.

'Really?' Hermione asked excited. 'I'd love to. Is Charlie going to have a solo again?'

'Yeah, he very often does,' said Harry warily. As he thought about it now, he began to wonder whether asking Hermione to come was such a good idea. After all, there was quite a lot of the Magic of Music going around and she had proved before that she was not to be trusted when it came to great magics. 'You can join in too, mate,' Harry added, looking at Ron.

'Nah, I'll pass,' replied Weasley. He wasn't interested in choral music.

'Suit yourself.' Harry shrugged and resumed writing his essay, conscious that he wouldn't have much time the next day. On top of that, it was already late and he had to get up at eight and get to Grove by nine for the rehearsal before matins.

'What time are we leaving tomorrow, Harry?' asked Hermione, packing her essay into her school bag and getting up, ready to retire for the night.

'Be down in the common room by eight thirty. We'll have a quick breakfast and then Floo from Slughorn's office.'

Nodding, Hermione left for the girls' dormitory, leaving Harry and Ron alone to finish their prep. As soon as she disappeared up the staircase, Ron burst out laughing.

'Oh, Merlin... A Know-It-All Muggleborn and a toff from Grove...' he guffawed. 'I'd like to see them go out.'

Shaking his head and trying to hide his grin, Harry returned to his essay, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the thought that Hermione might have a romantic interest in someone.

The next morning Harry overslept. It was twenty past eight when he opened his eyes, which meant that he had no more than ten minutes before he was due to meet Hermione in the common room and hurry to breakfast.

'God dammit!' he muttered, jumping out of bed, grabbing a pair of uniform trousers, a white shirt with a stiff collar, a black tie, and underwear, and ran for the bathroom. At a record speed, the boy washed and dressed, then popped the tie into his pocket and ran downstairs to meet Hermione who had already been waiting for him.

'Sorry, I overslept,' he apologised. Hermione's brow shot up as she stared him up and down.

'Yes, I can see that,' she said, looking at his wet hair and flushed face. 'Nice clothes,' she commented approvingly.

'That's what we wear under the cassock,' explained Harry. 'Apparently, if someone forgets even one part of the dress Master Walley, he's the choirmaster, won't allow him to perform. So yeah, better be ready for everything. I've got my tie in my pocket.'

Hermione nodded again. She had been brought up in a family well-bred enough to know that one didn't wear a tie with a shirt only. A jacket, or at least a jumper, was a must.

After a quick breakfast of fruit, porridge, and juice, Harry and Hermione used the fireplace in Professor Slughorn's office to Floo to Grove.

Hermione sat in the pew just next to the choir stalls, on the side opposite Harry and Charlie. Harry had cheekily recommended the spot, saying that she would have a better view of Charlie if she sat there, instead of on the other side where she had first wanted to sit. The girl was reclining gently, completely relaxed, in spite of the hard wooden board she had for a back-rest. Her eyes were only half-opened, as she savoured the beautiful music with her entire being, employing all of her senses.

The practice was only forty-five minutes long. At the beginning, Harry led Hermione to the vestry where the boys put their cassocks and surplices over their clothes. As it turned out, two boys were running late, to the extreme irritation of Master Walley, so the rehearsal was postponed. It wouldn't have normally been postponed, but the boys were indispensable – they were the two soloists. One of them, as Hermione had soon realised, was Charlie Moore. While they waited, Harry led Hermione to the pews and made sure that she got the best spot, one from which she could both hear and see everything perfectly.

'Brush your hair, Potter, or you'll be sitting in the congregation pews alongside your friend,' admonished Master Walley, smacking Harry softly on the back of the head.

'Sorry, sir,' replied the boy, winking at Hermione. 'I need to go. See you after the service.'

Thus, Hermione was left alone. She was granted the privilege of listening on the rehearsal soon. The boys, only wearing their cassocks for now, flooded the choir stalls. Some of them looked very young, though Hermione was aware that the youngest of them were thirteen; some of them looked rather mature even though they were no more than eighteen.

The girl sat back and listened with her eyes closed, feeling as if she were floating in the air, carried by the sweet tones of the trebles and the deep bases. At one point, Hermione opened her eyes and took in the faces of the choristers. They all looked as if they were living in their own little world reigned by music, where nothing else mattered. They looked serene when the music was calm, and energised when the music bade them so.

The practice, however, was nothing compared with the actual performance.

As the choristers left for the time being, allowing the congregation of Grove School boys and staff, parents and tourists to settle in before the service, Hermione pondered on what she saw and heard. She could have sworn there was some magical quality to the way they sang. She simply wouldn't believe that had it been a Muggle performance she would have had shivers running down her spine and the unnatural desire to hear as much of it as possible. After all, she had many times been to the Westminster Abbey with her parents, and even though she enjoyed the services there, they had not had the same impact on her. The music at Grove was like magic in its pure form. And, come to think of it, she remembered Professor Dumbledore saying at the welcoming feast during her first year that music was a magic greater than anything they ever did at Hogwarts. She didn't really know what he meant at the time, but listening to Grove School Chapel Choir made her see the headmaster's words in a completely different light. They stopped being merely musings of an incorrigible music lover; they became a literal truth.

The organ began to play and a few moments later they stood up for the entry of the choir and clergy who all took their places in silence. A moment later an introit began, a beautiful Latin anthem, powerful and uplifting. The piercing trebles sang in a delightful harmony, making the air vibrate with the strength of their voices.

But that was not the part Hermione was so looking forward to. She wanted to hear Charlie sing. She felt like an addict waiting for another dose of a drug, all giddy and needy. And at last, her wishes were granted.

Charlie stepped out of the stalls and prepared himself. With a barely noticeable nod towards Master Walley he signalled his readiness and the music started immediately. It was a brilliantly orchestrated rendition of _Jacob's Ladder_ arranged by Stephen Darlington. Charlie's deep, perfectly pitched voice was accompanied by the chorus of trebles creating an incredible effect.

As Charlie sang, Hermione looked at him closely. He was very handsome, in a youthful, boyish way. Knowing as she did now that he was eighteen, not fifteen as she had thought before, she was a bit less surprised by the richness of his voice, though it still was much better developed than she would have thought possible. Maybe magic helped him somehow? She would have to do some research on the use of music in doing magic.

Now, however, she was completely taken with examining Charlie: his tousled hair, his relaxed stature, his gleaming eyes, delicate, pinkish skin, and a long, straight nose. He looked like a typical public-school boy. She could bet he had a really posh accent and an air of entitlement. She didn't really mind the accent so much. After all, having grown up in a rather cultured environment, her accent had a certain edge of plumminess to it as well. But she felt conflicted about Charlie's privileged background. She was sure that he took it absolutely for granted that he would never have to work a day in his life. A typical case of 'rich daddy – snooty darling'. Then again, Hermione started feeling rather bad about her train of thoughts as she observed Charlie's mouth produce the most beautiful sounds she had ever heard. He must have worked really hard to achieve the level of musicianship he was at now. It would be unfair to say that he got everything handed over to him on a silver plate. No one got a voice like that by simply sitting back and relaxing. One got the raw material from nature, but the polishing process took years – it took skill, hard work, and dedication. And for that Hermione could only admire Charlie.

'So, how did you like it?' asked Harry after the service. He was sitting next to Hermione in the pew, having returned from the vestry when the congregation left the chapel.

'It was gorgeous,' said Hermione with a blissful smile. 'Really, incredible.'

Harry smiled back and pulled on Hermione's arm. 'Come on, let me introduce you to Charlie.'

'What?' The girl's eyes turned wide with worry. 'No way...'

'But isn't that what you came here for?' Harry was utterly confused.

Hermione blushed furiously. 'Of course not! I just wanted to hear the music,' she protested. Deep down she really wanted to meet Charlie, but for some reason she felt very shy and anxious about it.

Harry was about to start convincing the girl to come and meet Charlie anyway, but he didn't get the chance.

'Harry!' someone called out from the back of the chapel. The boy turned around only to see Charlie briskly walking towards them. He approached them and looked Hermione up and down before saying, 'And who may your D.D.G. friend be?'

Harry snorted amusedly. 'Charlie, meet Hermione Granger, my best friend from school.'

The boy nodded at Hermione flirtatiously, making Harry roll his eyes and struggle to withhold laughter. Charlie was known to be a hopeless flirt, but Harry really did hope he wouldn't latch onto Hermione. By the looks of it, the girl was rather smitten with Moore – her cheeks were bright-red and she seemed somewhat shy.

'A pleasure, surely,' said Charlie, shaking Hermione's hand and looking her deep in the eye. Smirking rather arrogantly, the boy turned towards Harry. 'We're having a picnic on the Riverside. You two are welcome to join us. The weather hasn't been this brilliant for ages.'

'Sure,' replied Harry, pulling Hermione behind him as he followed Charlie to the playing fields.

'What's the Riverside?' asked the girl curiously.

'The cricket ground by the river,' answered Charlie obligingly. He then sped up a bit, leaving Harry and Hermione to catch up.

'Harry, what's D.D.G.?' the girl whispered, sounding rather troubled.

Harry sniggered. 'Drop-Dead Gorgeous,' he said with a huge grin. Hermione looked stunned.

'Well, that certainly was unexpected,' said Harry, as he plunked onto an armchair in front of the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room. It was Sunday evening and he had just returned from Grove School, where he had spent the whole day in the company of Hermione and Charlie and a couple of Charlie's mates. Or rather, he spent his time gorging on food Moore had stolen from the school kitchens, talking to Grovians and observing a game of Footie, while Charlie took Hermione on a tour of the school. He had no idea what exactly they did for three hours (it surely wasn't sightseeing... Charlie hated sightseeing, as he had kindly informed Harry the other day), but upon return, Hermione's eyes were dreamy and her cheeks were blushing innocently. The scene was so hilarious that Harry and George Crewe, who was helping Harry to diminish the stocks in the picnic hamper, rolled around on the grass, cackling like hyenas.

'What happened? Any juicy news from the Snob School?' asked Ron, leaning over towards Harry and nudging him on the shoulder.

'She said he sang to her...' said Harry with disbelief, staring at the entrance to the girls' dormitories where Hermione had disappeared just mere minutes before.

Weasley's eyes grew wide. 'Seriously? Hey, I was only joking when I said I wanted to see them go out! I don't want our Hermione hobnobbing with rich kiddies,' he exclaimed indignantly.

'I did not put her up to it,' snapped Harry. 'If she likes Charlie she can do whatever she pleases. Maybe when she has something else to occupy her mind she'll stop being on my case all the time.'

Ron eyed his best friend calculatingly. 'You did it on purpose,' he stated, pointing at Harry accusingly. 'You wanted her to start liking the twat so she can't bother you for behaving like one of them!'

'What?!' Harry was quite taken aback. 'I did no such thing. I don't care with whom she goes out. She can go out with you, for all I care.'

At this point, Ron was seething. 'Oh yeah, because going out with me would be so low, wouldn't it, Harry? When she can have all those rich boys from your beloved Grove? Why don't you transfer? You go there every day anyway! Primadonna...'

Harry stared at Ron for a moment. He felt a huge lump form in the pit of his stomach. Weasley's words really did hurt.

'You're just jealous, Ron,' snarled Harry, his good mood evaporating.

'Jealous? Of what?' snorted Ron.

'You know, if you like Hermione you should have asked her out,' said Harry, looking at Ron harshly. 'Don't take your frustrations out on me. I have enough problems, I don't need to add fighting with you to the load.'

Ron huffed. 'Yeah, right, Mr Rich and Popular. Just go away and leave me alone, okay?'

'Fine, if you want to be like that.'

That said, Harry went up to his dormitory, irritated and, for some unfathomable reason, hungry.


End file.
